Another Art of Poetry § 17

Untitled © Marc van Kempen

If one can believe that biased ancient,the Wordshouldering his way innocuously into the dust,the waiting stones, the tides and weathershe had made pronouncing them, appeared, becamethe heart, the innermost, of all he had uttered.To dark listeners pressing around himhe figured another, heavenly earth,speaking with authority and with infinite patience.His departure was predictable, and obloquy, taunts,circumspect remarks—the small changeof history—performed their work. He didreturn for a while. A chastened friendmet him by the tomb,and accosted him sadly, thinking she had seenold Adam, the gardener. No sooner had he begun,however, than he was lifted, shedding lighton a world changing and ready to be named,till a cloud hid him;leaving the haunted among us to consumeall our Saturdays reaching for words.