To be great is not our fate
So we try to gain applause,
To attract, by being in fact,
What perhaps we really are,
Somewhat hazy, if not quite crazy.
See the pictures which we hang,
Daubs of paint, now bright, now faint,
Houses leaning, quaint designs,
Figures queer and how we sneer
At what the common people like!
Though our verse may seem too terse,
Somewhat odd and not quite nice;
Yet it’s fine, each single line,
Free from metre and from rhyme,
It’s intense, without much sense!
Music may be passing strange,
Tunes appear, then disappear
In a hurricane of sound,
Now a squeak, a louder shriek,
Rockets bursting, grand finale!
With clasped hands the critic stands
Talking much of atmosphere,
Looking wise through half-closed eyes,
He reveals our very soul.
With disdain for all that’s plain
He explains our meaning well;
Listeners smile, they love his style
As they love our modern art,
Whose true tone, we can’t disown,
Only mystics understand!
ON READING SOME IMAGIST VERSES.
Sensuous cadences
Poignant with feeling,
Writhing like snakes
Before feeding,
Coiling, uncoiling,
In magical curves.
Words most expressive,
Which sound like their meaning,
Throwing pictures before us,
In beauty revealing
Form, movement and feeling;
Words chosen with care
And yet some may ask,
Leading where?
Leading where?