Wallace Stevens' Poetry Poem by Raymond Farrell

He thought
When the metal detector
Went off
There must be
A gold mine
Buried
Just beneath the surface
Like a frenzied badger
He dug, and dug
Hours past
Men, women, and children
Around the globe
And at his gate
Succumbed
To war, poverty, and disease
But with increasing indifference
The digging went on
Months past
The Spring
Was exceptionally wet and cold
With gray days
Summer was far too brief
And the days though longer
Were at times too cool
And when Autumn came
He felt cheated
He had found nothing
But kept digging
Slowly, but deliberately
Others coming by
Admonished him
Gave him tips and hints
About how to dig
And where to look
Assured him
Something of real value
Would be found
Then Winter finally came
And old age with it
Just as he was about
To give up
He at last found
The source of the commotion
That began as
Such a hopeful sound
There in the mud
Obscure and rusty
Was one metal slug
As thin as paper
And as useless
As a tinker's blessing
And all he had to show
For what he thought was certain
Gold or something of value
A blissful reality
He had constructed in his mind
That had driven
Him passionately on
In the end
Proved to be
Nothing more
Than a figment
Of his imagination
And for the fuzzy consensus
Shared with others
That spurred him on
Assuring him and convincing him
He would find something
Profound and of relevance
In the real world
There it was
Real perhaps
In a surreal way
Yet utterly worthless
But what of the
Unsightly hole
The time and life
Wasted
And the sins
Of omission.