In a Glass of Absinthe Mixed with Trojan Blood
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The oldest Homer, blind or not, might see
That caves of poetry are where the dark
And torches, wavering with black, agree.
The chasms that they share are not as stark
As priestesses imagine in their truth
And lies. To slam the flame beside an owl,
To press a sacred heart against a tooth
Brings out a priest castrated in a cowl.
The later Homers not quite blind, half blind
Instead, have learned that if their words confuse
Their readers then the phrases when combined
Produce the trance forbidden by clear views.
The brat-like Rimbaud thinks that he has found
That vowels are drugged up colors made of sound.