So hungry-sensitive that he
craves day and night the pap of praise,
he'll ease his gripes or fingerpaint
in heartsblood on a public page.
The ordinary world must be
altered to circumvent his rage.
He'll tell, with stylish Angst of course,
the inmost secrets of our bed.
Words are far worse than drugs; there is
no hope of surfeit or remorse.
The world lies wide, and warm. No kiss,
no child, no prayer will keep him here.
I'll wash the floors. He'll watch the stars.
I'll salt his life with common sense.
He'll suck my sap and vigour down
the crude mouth of his private hell.
Visions have no equivalents.
He'll die of drink and candy bars.
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Comments about this poem (Dichterliebe by Gwen Harwood )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Walter de la Mare
(1873 - 1958)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949)
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