The Creator Loses
He slaps down blood and brains and soul in art.
He thinks that politics is none of these.
When politics intrudes, the poet’s heart
Becomes a platform made of callused pleas
Instead of purity. He captures bark
Destroyed, and slaughtered oaks, then love with roots
In vilenesses of lust or greed, the dark
Things underneath, and blind religion’s boots.
There isn’t room for small things like nations
In works that he creates. All, all that he
Includes in crushed up paints are the oblations
Of guts in search of numb eternity.
Unwritten paper and blank canvas urge
Him onward. He strives for that furthest purge.