There is so much wrong in the past,
So much unfinished revenge that waits.
The historian would be killed
Should he truly venture there.
One thing keeps the historian from harm.
Art protects; taste, refinement, these are
The army, the security, the police.
Simple learning will lead one to
The howling hounds, the shameful facts.
And therefore when you plunge into
The smoky realms of art, do not be surprised
When you find bitterness and authority,
Secretive wit, deranged hostility,
Each seminar a genteel lesson in power
Which to learn requires hidden knives,
A good sharpened branch for your research,
Several magic numbers,
A cry to match theirs,
A philosophy that murders.
The gloom of Baudelaire is no affectation,
No writer’s tic. The horror of the plot
Is no show, no accident. The appalling
Lack of taste covered up in taste,
The dead floating in a beautiful web,
Is the unforgiving labyrinth you must learn from
To defend you from the more simple disgust,
The straightforward terrorists of mere learning.
Do not imagine Emily Dickinson will be sweet
Or invite you in or tell you a single thing.
Those who love Minerva must not look.
Silences, odors, perfumes, the good
Who are now exiled, may they inspire you!
In a den of dissembling serenity determine
Who they are, who they are, who they are.