Thursday, March 27, 2014

THE FIRST POEM

A poet—
is a 
poet, 
is 
a—poet,
remains a poet!

even 
while he
is silent-
and dreaming.

Before his fame—be it
real 
or imagined—before 

any fantasies regarding
the perfect 
line lengths
and feet
that will lead—eventually 

to editions—with line numbers
and foot-
notes
and those great discrepancies over specific pagination—

but—and 

even! before it
exists in the scrawniest graphemes;

before its symbolism 
gets cast- 
out in cannibalistic symbols—distilled in 

a manner characteristic 
of a stale and inescapably 
pre-given system;

before it even begins
to live 
for him!
The thing gleams—

the poem 
in its raw first idea.

It exists—in his dream

at its absolute
best
at present—when

nothing yet
has been 
said—and nothing—

absolute,
heartrending,
beautiful nothing—

has ever been made
so perfect-
ly 
manifest.

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