It is not the bad, but the bad which seems to be good,
Which gets you in the end, and chiefly by its seeming;
For soon good which is really bad ruins your judgement completely,
And the bad which turns out to be good doesn’t help, either.
You resent the good since it was good all this time and you didn’t know,
And when you start to resent the good, you lose a sense of taste
For the mundane steps common sense must take, and confusion
Slowly and unconsciously poisons all enthusiasm and joy.
The style ruined the poet, who had much to say, but remained silent,
As the style of the poetry inhibited speech; the artificial naturally the aim,
Which is the great mistake of all artists—to be artistic.
I could see what you were depicting, and that was the problem—
Speech is not seeing, but the poets don’t get this. I have eyes.
But poets, lovers, it is my ears, not my eyes, which need food.
Talk is the secret of poetry and love. Depiction is for the painters.
Our talk will put to shame even the sensuality of three dimensions.
Be conversant with me, for many hours—those hours lit still.