The poet speaks through chosen words
But the world turns to prose
Easy to understand and you obtain
Your sweat-stained money’s worth, they claim.
To argue is to be laughed at but you argue
All the same: Poetry is sublime.
Who wants sublimity, they groan, we are
Tired of profound thinkers and their daily adultery
With other men’s words —
Life is violent, grotesque and sexy:
How can poetry portray this?
But there is, you persist,
An inner life, waiting
For apt words to express itself.
Inner life! They look at one another and tap
Their heads with pointed fingers and that is that.