There is poetry here among us—
Which I never had the ability to speak.
A strength of seeing I lacked?
Or hearing. Enthusiasm.
Or maybe I was entirely weak.
I was weak, and took to the shade,
And the most amazing poems were made.
There was a poetry
In my mind, but a poetry which never spoke.
To cities dressed in gray, with souls the color of smoke,
From a shady distance, I was attached, nonetheless;
I saw the world was sad. I felt the world’s stress.
Smoke hung like buildings in the distance;
The grey resembled the purple; and smoke,
Purple-grey and grey, whispered;
The mumbling shyness almost spoke—
And words, written out, in a dream,
Came to me in a silent, solemn dream.
Solemn the thoughts, and solemn the words,
A perfect solemnity,
When trees resemble distant cities,
And trees are crowned with birds.
The impossible things I spoke!
I fell into the deep shade. I wrote poems;
Poetry is only a joke!
Solemn trees stood out on the plains,
Resembling smoke flowing upwards in the wind,
Smoke pouring into the wind-lanes assigned by the air,
Smoke disappearing in the distance, grey smoke that was almost there.
There is poetry here among us—but the poem doesn’t care.