Lay open vestibule of our greatest minds,
Upon the lap of the only man in a quarter century
To open thy door, and see thy cataract.
The strophe and antistrophe
Which haven’t a soul
To espouse Grecian category’s empty words;
No, but to me you mean the top and bottom
Of those flawless chemicals of geometry;
A cataract, just like the Great Falls of Buffalo.
Am I the only man to see it for a quarter century?—
How so austere at first
It dances around my eyes,
The ugly ink and plain words.
Yet, it is perfect in meaning.
How does a man explain poetry
To those who never drink from its mousse?
It merely tells us what rests beyond all artifice
Into the meaning of these things
We might never take a passing glance.
Waterfalls might have a certain chemical,
Something between Geometry and Stars,
But do those chemicals have meaning?
Or, does the meaning create the chemicals?
A man who feels truth is very deceived,
Yet, if one could see the pure feeling of Niagara Falls
That my sinful self could not appreciate…
I will remember the feeling later, at a second glance
In a poem nobody has read for over twenty years.
And that is why I know there is sin.
That is why I know there is such foulness.
I can know the feeling then and now
Both the same, but then I would not chew upon it.
Today, without beholding what my eyes had once seen,
I can see it once again, and in that sight,
Understand what sin truly was.
A lie we tell ourselves to spoil what is good and right before our eyes.
Then, later, one meditates on it from afar,
Without the beauty before flesh’s eyes.