The poor poet.


please be patient with me, listen

I love you unutterably

unutterably beyond all words I love you.

Oh if language held a word that combined

the cringing admiration of the slave

the ecstatic smile of the martyr

and the gnawing homesickness of the exile

with that word I would tell you my love.

Do not think am insulting you with an insane hope

I am poor, so miserably poor yes

and yet there is a world am a ruler, powerful

proud, rich, with the crown of victory

noble by virtue of the passion that drove prometheus

to steal fire from the heaven of gods

there I am the brother of all the great in spirit

whom the earth has bore and who bore the earth

I understand them as non but as equals understand one another

no flight they have flown is too high for the strength of my wings

Do you understand me, do you believe me

oh don’t believe me! it isn’t true

I am nothing but the rustic figure you see before you

its all in the past

for this madness of love has paralised my wings

the eyes of my spirit has lost their sight

my heart is dried up

my soul is drained to bloodless poltroonery

oh save  from myself miss adorable

don’t run away in scorn

weep over me

weep it is Rome burning

oh its terrible

there is not a thing in my soul that I wouldn’t murder and degrade

if I could win you thereby

even if anyone offered me madness

and I could posses you in my hallucinations

posses you, then I would say

take my brain, tear down its wonderful structure with rude hands

break all the fine threads that bind my spirit

to the resplendent triumphal chariot of human mind

and let me sink in the mire of the physical

under the wheels of the chariot

and let others follow the shining paths that lead to the light

Do you understand me? Can you comprehend

that even if your love came to me robbed of its glory

debased, befouled, as a caricature of love

as a deceased phantom, I would receive it

kneeling as if I was the host?

But the best in me is useless

the worst in me is useless too

I cry to the sun it does not shine

to the statue but it does not answer

what is there to answer except that I suffer?

No, these unutterable torments

that render my whole being down to its deepest roots

this anguish is nothing to you but an impertinence

you feel nothing but a little cold offence

in your heart you laugh scornfully,

at the poor poet and his impossible passion.







2 thoughts on “The poor poet.

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