TOPSY-TURVY

IIf I insist that violetsAre intellectual eyesDotting with a wave of sightThe chained recalcitrance of earth,Philosophers and scientistsâ€”Blind boys who bolt themselves within a roomâ€”Will seek to torture meFor the flashing witchcraftThat rides on thunderclapsCalled imagination.The crystallized escapeOf fear is known as logic,And men have used it to lightSmall spaces in the wilderness of black.But I prefer to mountHuge horses of the wind,Whose fantastic laughterSeparates to metaphorsAnd similes that hurl their decorationsAgainst the wide malevolence of space.When I return to the morbidHelplessness of earthAnd shake off the dream of freedom,Men ply their knives of godsAnd creeds upon my skin.Much traveling through spaceHas made me immune to pain,And metaphors and similesAid my counting of blood-drops,Bringing color to mathematics.IILady upon whose headI weave the motives of this poem,Change your sex to a barely visibleTrembling that can match the fluttering charmOf the wreath that I have made for you.When this task is finishedWe may saunter gaylyPast the cunning nichesThat psychology has made for us.REVILE THE ACROBATMaiden, where are you going,With impudence that makes your arms and legsUnnecessary feathers?Your eyes have intercededBetween the flesh and soul,And show a light of reconciliation.For whom have you prepared yourself?I go to see an acrobatReviled by men, and actingWithin a lonely circus ownedBy Mind, Soul, & Heart, Incorporated.I love his limbs whose musclesCompete with twirls of gossamer,And Oh, I love him notWith the drooling, fevered weight of earth.He turns my blood to oneProfusion of melted wings.Maiden, why is this acrobatBetter than men who stand withinThe favored halls of mind and heart,Playing, with lust and dignity,Violins and trumpets?They are not better, and he,Whose thoughtful quickness combinesThe pliantness of mind and soul,He is not worseâ€”the thoughts of menStand still on high roofs of the mind,Or borrow sorceries of flesh,While he, with flimsy trailsOf ruffles on a gaudy jacket,Springs into the air; assaultsEvery stately, fierce, robustFinality that men have made.He cares not whether he is right or wrong.He seeks a decorative speedOf thought and soul, and he is not afraidOf being insincere.Men loathe him, but I clothe himWith magnificent, specificFabrics slighter than the remorse of a childAnd bearing involved births of colors.Strength is not aloneThe size and thickness known to men!COMPULSORY TASKSWords, it is apparentThat you are crucified and fondledBy the pride of each new generation.O words, whose sportive formationsCould make the courts of intellectBelligerent and insane,Men have sentenced youTo scores of endless drudgeries.Weakened by the years,You guard the dying bonfiresOf each nation and race.Again, like hordes of cattle,You drag the expectationsOf social theories and remedies,Stopping only when the blood of menWashes away your useless labours.I have seen your bandsOf ragged courtesansMarching in feverish linesTo rescue the rites of sex.I have watched you rushTo repair the cracksIn breaking cathedrals and churches.With gilded, exclamatory vowelsYou garnish the cowering of earth,And with recurring darknessYou spurn the peering mind.Again you are hands of intellect,Disrobing the flesh of menAnd carefully preservingEach discarded garmentWith a pinch of powdered emotion.Again you are driven forthIn lying mobs of sighs and laughsTo warm the evening hours of a nation.(â€œThey could never restrain themselvesTo wait at home for the postman ...Would Copperfield marry Dora or Agnes?â€)Sentimental breathlessnessFleeing from the helpless decay of thought.O words, brow-beaten bricklayersObeying the shouts of scienceAnd raising walls upon whose topThe soul is perched, contemptuouslySquinting down at toiling pygmies:O words, and you can beSuperbly demented skeptics,Betraying the unctuous failures of earth;Riding the wild horse of the mind:Bringing spurs into play;Summoning with pain the lurking soul.

If I insist that violetsAre intellectual eyesDotting with a wave of sightThe chained recalcitrance of earth,Philosophers and scientistsâ€”Blind boys who bolt themselves within a roomâ€”Will seek to torture meFor the flashing witchcraftThat rides on thunderclapsCalled imagination.The crystallized escapeOf fear is known as logic,And men have used it to lightSmall spaces in the wilderness of black.But I prefer to mountHuge horses of the wind,Whose fantastic laughterSeparates to metaphorsAnd similes that hurl their decorationsAgainst the wide malevolence of space.When I return to the morbidHelplessness of earthAnd shake off the dream of freedom,Men ply their knives of godsAnd creeds upon my skin.Much traveling through spaceHas made me immune to pain,And metaphors and similesAid my counting of blood-drops,Bringing color to mathematics.

If I insist that violets

Are intellectual eyes

Dotting with a wave of sight

The chained recalcitrance of earth,

Philosophers and scientistsâ€”

Blind boys who bolt themselves within a roomâ€”

Will seek to torture me

For the flashing witchcraft

That rides on thunderclaps

Called imagination.

The crystallized escape

Of fear is known as logic,

And men have used it to light

Small spaces in the wilderness of black.

But I prefer to mount

Huge horses of the wind,

Whose fantastic laughter

Separates to metaphors

And similes that hurl their decorations

Against the wide malevolence of space.

When I return to the morbid

Helplessness of earth

And shake off the dream of freedom,

Men ply their knives of gods

And creeds upon my skin.

Much traveling through space

Has made me immune to pain,

And metaphors and similes

Aid my counting of blood-drops,

Bringing color to mathematics.

IILady upon whose headI weave the motives of this poem,Change your sex to a barely visibleTrembling that can match the fluttering charmOf the wreath that I have made for you.When this task is finishedWe may saunter gaylyPast the cunning nichesThat psychology has made for us.

Lady upon whose headI weave the motives of this poem,Change your sex to a barely visibleTrembling that can match the fluttering charmOf the wreath that I have made for you.When this task is finishedWe may saunter gaylyPast the cunning nichesThat psychology has made for us.

Lady upon whose head

I weave the motives of this poem,

Change your sex to a barely visible

Trembling that can match the fluttering charm

Of the wreath that I have made for you.

When this task is finished

We may saunter gayly

Past the cunning niches

That psychology has made for us.

REVILE THE ACROBAT

Maiden, where are you going,With impudence that makes your arms and legsUnnecessary feathers?Your eyes have intercededBetween the flesh and soul,And show a light of reconciliation.For whom have you prepared yourself?I go to see an acrobatReviled by men, and actingWithin a lonely circus ownedBy Mind, Soul, & Heart, Incorporated.I love his limbs whose musclesCompete with twirls of gossamer,And Oh, I love him notWith the drooling, fevered weight of earth.He turns my blood to oneProfusion of melted wings.Maiden, why is this acrobatBetter than men who stand withinThe favored halls of mind and heart,Playing, with lust and dignity,Violins and trumpets?They are not better, and he,Whose thoughtful quickness combinesThe pliantness of mind and soul,He is not worseâ€”the thoughts of menStand still on high roofs of the mind,Or borrow sorceries of flesh,While he, with flimsy trailsOf ruffles on a gaudy jacket,Springs into the air; assaultsEvery stately, fierce, robustFinality that men have made.He cares not whether he is right or wrong.He seeks a decorative speedOf thought and soul, and he is not afraidOf being insincere.Men loathe him, but I clothe himWith magnificent, specificFabrics slighter than the remorse of a childAnd bearing involved births of colors.Strength is not aloneThe size and thickness known to men!

Maiden, where are you going,

With impudence that makes your arms and legs

Unnecessary feathers?

Your eyes have interceded

Between the flesh and soul,

And show a light of reconciliation.

For whom have you prepared yourself?

I go to see an acrobatReviled by men, and actingWithin a lonely circus ownedBy Mind, Soul, & Heart, Incorporated.I love his limbs whose musclesCompete with twirls of gossamer,And Oh, I love him notWith the drooling, fevered weight of earth.He turns my blood to oneProfusion of melted wings.

I go to see an acrobat

Reviled by men, and acting

Within a lonely circus owned

By Mind, Soul, & Heart, Incorporated.

I love his limbs whose muscles

Compete with twirls of gossamer,

And Oh, I love him not

With the drooling, fevered weight of earth.

He turns my blood to one

Profusion of melted wings.

Maiden, why is this acrobatBetter than men who stand withinThe favored halls of mind and heart,Playing, with lust and dignity,Violins and trumpets?

Maiden, why is this acrobat

Better than men who stand within

The favored halls of mind and heart,

Playing, with lust and dignity,

Violins and trumpets?

They are not better, and he,Whose thoughtful quickness combinesThe pliantness of mind and soul,He is not worseâ€”the thoughts of menStand still on high roofs of the mind,Or borrow sorceries of flesh,While he, with flimsy trailsOf ruffles on a gaudy jacket,Springs into the air; assaultsEvery stately, fierce, robustFinality that men have made.He cares not whether he is right or wrong.He seeks a decorative speedOf thought and soul, and he is not afraidOf being insincere.Men loathe him, but I clothe himWith magnificent, specificFabrics slighter than the remorse of a childAnd bearing involved births of colors.Strength is not aloneThe size and thickness known to men!

They are not better, and he,

Whose thoughtful quickness combines

The pliantness of mind and soul,

He is not worseâ€”the thoughts of men

Stand still on high roofs of the mind,

Or borrow sorceries of flesh,

While he, with flimsy trails

Of ruffles on a gaudy jacket,

Springs into the air; assaults

Every stately, fierce, robust

Finality that men have made.

He cares not whether he is right or wrong.

He seeks a decorative speed

Of thought and soul, and he is not afraid

Of being insincere.

Men loathe him, but I clothe him

With magnificent, specific

Fabrics slighter than the remorse of a child

And bearing involved births of colors.

Strength is not alone

The size and thickness known to men!

COMPULSORY TASKS

Words, it is apparentThat you are crucified and fondledBy the pride of each new generation.O words, whose sportive formationsCould make the courts of intellectBelligerent and insane,Men have sentenced youTo scores of endless drudgeries.Weakened by the years,You guard the dying bonfiresOf each nation and race.Again, like hordes of cattle,You drag the expectationsOf social theories and remedies,Stopping only when the blood of menWashes away your useless labours.I have seen your bandsOf ragged courtesansMarching in feverish linesTo rescue the rites of sex.I have watched you rushTo repair the cracksIn breaking cathedrals and churches.With gilded, exclamatory vowelsYou garnish the cowering of earth,And with recurring darknessYou spurn the peering mind.Again you are hands of intellect,Disrobing the flesh of menAnd carefully preservingEach discarded garmentWith a pinch of powdered emotion.Again you are driven forthIn lying mobs of sighs and laughsTo warm the evening hours of a nation.(â€œThey could never restrain themselvesTo wait at home for the postman ...Would Copperfield marry Dora or Agnes?â€)Sentimental breathlessnessFleeing from the helpless decay of thought.O words, brow-beaten bricklayersObeying the shouts of scienceAnd raising walls upon whose topThe soul is perched, contemptuouslySquinting down at toiling pygmies:O words, and you can beSuperbly demented skeptics,Betraying the unctuous failures of earth;Riding the wild horse of the mind:Bringing spurs into play;Summoning with pain the lurking soul.

Words, it is apparent

That you are crucified and fondled

By the pride of each new generation.

O words, whose sportive formations

Could make the courts of intellect

Belligerent and insane,

Men have sentenced you

To scores of endless drudgeries.

Weakened by the years,

You guard the dying bonfires

Of each nation and race.

Again, like hordes of cattle,

You drag the expectations

Of social theories and remedies,

Stopping only when the blood of men

Washes away your useless labours.

I have seen your bands

Of ragged courtesans

Marching in feverish lines

To rescue the rites of sex.

I have watched you rush

To repair the cracks

In breaking cathedrals and churches.

With gilded, exclamatory vowels

You garnish the cowering of earth,

And with recurring darkness

You spurn the peering mind.

Again you are hands of intellect,

Disrobing the flesh of men

And carefully preserving

Each discarded garment

With a pinch of powdered emotion.

Again you are driven forth

In lying mobs of sighs and laughs

To warm the evening hours of a nation.

(â€œThey could never restrain themselves

To wait at home for the postman ...

Would Copperfield marry Dora or Agnes?â€)

Sentimental breathlessness

Fleeing from the helpless decay of thought.

O words, brow-beaten bricklayers

Obeying the shouts of science

And raising walls upon whose top

The soul is perched, contemptuously

Squinting down at toiling pygmies:

O words, and you can be

Superbly demented skeptics,

Betraying the unctuous failures of earth;

Riding the wild horse of the mind:

Bringing spurs into play;

Summoning with pain the lurking soul.

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