Only when I was angry, was I in love with you.
But my angry moods were just too few
To really be in love with you.
I remember when I was in a rage,
A poet in a prose cage,
Saying to myself, “This will never do.
My silence! And others talking to you!
You, a smiling rose,
Lovelier than anything described in prose.”
I wanted to whisper in your ear,
“Here is beauty, and for this beauty, poetry is here.”
Admiration is worship. Is worship sin?
No—but her worship of me did me in.
Worship occurring mutually at the same time
Occurs only when looking and kissing; my rhyme
Was not returned by her; but a look and a kiss
Flooded worship. The gods know this.
She was not a poet, but when she kissed
Me, holy books sat, unread. And were not missed.
She was mine; I could not look at them.
Water fed the roots, and then the stem;
The rose was no longer the poetry;
Her lips pressing mine, poetry became me.
I could not be angry anymore.
I loved her, adoring her, so she would adore.
I loved. But how was it I was angrier than before?
I whispered, almost with venom, “Don’t you see?
You must kiss me! Adore me! Follow me!”
Happy tyranny! Rage upon more rage grew.
“Unholy kisses, desperate kisses. Every kiss for you.”
I found the secret to poetry and madness:
My rage was changed into love’s gladness,
Mutuality. And inspired sadness.