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19 Poetry Is Never of Emotion Poetry is never of emotion. It is a compromise Between what the soul desires And what the flesh cannot give. For the healthy man His life is his poem. For the literary critic He lives to write another article. It is the poet Who shuffles from kitchen to loo Biting his nails not knowing what to do. The Sculpted Hand The arm bent upwards, Sticking from beneath the quilt, Ends with the hand. The hand, erect, fixed In time and space, Holding cigarette, drifting smoke. The power of being still, hand cold, erect: Holding space and time. What has that hand to do with the dry throat? ...

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