Selected Poems: 1946-1968 (1986), Bloodaxe Books'Listen, now, verse should be as naturalAs the small tuber that feeds on muckAnd grows slowly from obtuse soilTo the white flower of immortal beauty.''Natural, hell! What was it ChaucerSaid once about the long toilThat goes like blood to the poem's making?Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,Limp as bindweed, if it break at allLife's iron crust. Man, you must sweatAnd rhyme your guts taut, if you'd buildYour verse a ladder.''You speak as thoughNo sunlight ever surprised the mindGroping on its cloudy path.''Sunlight's a thing that needs a windowBefore it enter a dark room.Windows don't happen.'So two old poets,Hunched at their beer in the low hazeOf an inn parlour, while the talk ranNoisily by them, glib with prose.
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