"Darkling Summer, Ominous Dusk, Rumorous Rain" A tattering of rain and then the reign Of pour and pouring-down and down, Where in the westward gathe… - Delmore Schwartz

Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.

(Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day)

"The kingdom of poetry"

This is like light.
This is light,
Useful as light, as charming
And enchanting…

…Poetry is certainly
More interesting, more valuable,
and certainly more charming
Than Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, the Atlantic Ocean
And other much admired natural phenomena.
It is useful as light, and as beautiful
It is preposterous
Precisely, making it possible to say
One cannot carry a mountain, but a poem can be carried all over.
It is monstrous.
Pleasantly, for poetry can say, seriously or in play:

“Poetry is better than hope,
“For poetry is patience of hope, and all hope’s vivid pictures,
“Poetry is better than excitement, it is far more delightful,
“Poetry is superior to success, and victory, it endures in serene blessedness
“Long after the most fabulous feat like fireworks has mounted and fallen.
“Poetry is far more powerful and far more enchanting animal
“Than any wood, jungle, ark, circus or zoo possesses.”

For poetry magnifies and heighten reality:
Poetry says of reality that if it is magnificent, it is also stupid:
For poetry is, in a way, omnipotent;
For reality is various and rich, powerful and vivid, but it is not enough
Because it is disorderly and stupid or only at times, and erratically, intelligent:
For without poetry, reality is speechless or incoherent:
It is inchoate, like the pomp and the bombast of thunder:
Its peroration verge upon the ceaseless oration of the ocean:
For reality glows and glory, without poetry,
Fake, like the red operas of sunset
The blue rivers and the windows of morning.

The arts of poetry makes it possible to say: Pandemonium.
For poetry is gay and exact. It says:
“The sunset resembles a bull-fight.
“A sleeping arm feels like soda, fizzing.”

Poetry resurrect the past from the sepulchre, like Lazarus.
It transforms a lion into a sphinx and a girl.
It gives a girl the splendor of Latin.
It transforms the water into wine at each marriage in Cana of Galilee.

For it is true that poetry invented the unicorn, the

I no more wrote than read that book which is The self I am, half hidden as it is From one and all who see within a kiss The lounging formless blackness of an abyss. <p> How could I think the brief years were enough To prove the reality of endless love?