For the association of poets
It’s a world of words to the end of it
But the poet plays many roles besides that of poet
Sailor homemaker negotiator mammal fool
Compounded of attitudes experiences expectations
Some commendable some less so
Ephemeral and somewhat nugatory
But the poet is not the poem
Which is of the world
Outside and inside itself
And not a person place or thing
Well it is sort of a thing
But neither fully abstract nor fully concrete
Rather like that first world that we call the world
And to enter a poem a painting a story or a play
Or cathedral arena theater bank or humble home
Is to enter a world of artifice
That might as well be made
Of color stone or words
Which are of nature
And so we cannot know which world comes first
And so the artistry is only in the arrangement
The piling of stone upon stone
And even that is no more than the skill
Of handling flint steam or semiconductor
Which compose nature’s measurable surface
But space image line sound and concept
Denote significance beyond themselves
They express something
And words especially exercise this power
Of driving truth into the world from their world
The fantastical rhythms of understanding
Everybody already knows the dawn
But remind me please of her luscious rosy fingers
Remember to me the glory of His Majesty the Sun
Show me again the tenderness of the nursing mother
The gentle rain that droppeth upon the place beneath
The night time that is the right time to be with the one you love
The alarming spectacle of butterfly upon flower
The cunning of the predator
The power of storm that torments the sea and the land
The intelligence of scavengers and fungi
Their stately obsequies for the dead