All the more spoiled
My lines,
Getting longer
Stream of consciousness
No more concise
From monosyllabic
Becoming
Trochaic,
A spondee would either
Taught master Coleridge:
The foot
Is a stride,
My aleatoric experiment
A jumble of words.
Neither a classicist
Nor a neo-
A romantic or absurd
The Voices alas
Scribbles though
Much richer in thought
The Chaos
Without punctuation
Straight from heart,
From a mystic’s
Tutorship.
A maze of songs
Am neither a pupil
Nor a teacher.
The Waste Land
Proved
A collage asking
Critic’s apologies,
Having been written
By T.S. Eliot:
For Ezra Pound.
The bard’s verse
Something to reckon.
Your tresses in gold
An art to sculpt,
Nothing thus happens
After the happenings’
Happening, long after.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem