T H E OTHER ME

I do not write— The other me

Demands emergence constantly.

But if I turn to face him much too swiftly Then

He sidles back to where and when He was before

I unknowingly cracked the door And let him out.

Sometimes a fire-shout beckons him, He reckons that I need him,

So I do. His task

To tell me who I am behind this mask. He Phantom is, and I facade

That hides the opera he writes with God, While I, all blind,

Wait raptureless until his mind

Steals down my arm to wrist, to hand, to fingertips

And, stealing, find

And burn with sound,

And all of it from secret blood and secret soul on secret ground.

With glee

He sidles forth to write, then run and hide All week until another try at hide-and-seek In which I do pretend

That teasing him is not my end. Yet tease I do and feign to look away, Or else that secret self will hide all day. I run and play some simple game, A mindless leap

Which from sleep summons forth

The bright beast, lurking, whose preserves And gaming ground? My breath,

My blood, my nerves.

But where in all that stuff does he abide? In all my rampant seekings, where's he hide? Behind this ear like gum,

That ear like fat?

Where does this mischief boy Hatrack his hat?

No use. A hermit he was born And lives, recluse.

There's nothing for it but I join his ruse, his game, And let him run at will and make my fame. On which I put my name and steal his stuff, And all because I sneezed him forth

With sweet creation's snuff.

Did R. B. write that poem, that line, that speech? No, inner-ape, invisible, did teach.

His reach, clothed in my flesh, stays mystery; Say not my name.

TROY

My Troy was there, of course, Though people said: Not so.

Blind Homer's dead. His ancient myth's No way to go. Leave off. Don't dig. But I then rigged some means whereby To seam my earthen soul

or die.

I knew my Troy.

Folks warned this boy it was mere tale And nothing more.

I bore their warning, with a smile, While all the while my spade

Was delving Homer's gardened sun and shade. Gods! Never mind! cried friends: Dumb Homer's blind!

How can he show you ruins that n'er were? I'm sure, I said. He speaks. I hear. I'm sure. Their advice spurned

I dug when all their backs were turned, For I had learned when I was eight:

That day I panicked, thought it true, That you and I and they

Would never see the light of the next day— Yet that day came.

With shame I saw it come, recalled my doubt And wondered what those Doomsters were about? From that day on I kept a private joy,

And did not let them sense My buried Troy;

For if they had, what scorns, Derision, jokes;

I sealed my City deep From all those folks;

And, growing, dug each day. What did I find And given as gift by Homer old and Homer blind? One Troy? No, ten!

Ten Troys? No, two times ten! Three dozen! And each a richer, finer, brighter cousin! All in my flesh and blood,

And each one true. So what's this mean? Go dig the Troy in you\

Go NOT WITH R U I N S IN YOUR MIND

Go not with ruins in your mind Or beauty fails; Rome's sun is blind And catacomb your cold hotel!

Where should-be heavens could-be hell. Beware the temblors and the flood That time hides fast in tourist's blood And shambles forth from hidden home At sight of lost-in-ruins Rome.

Think on your joyless blood, take care, Rome's scattered bricks and bones lie there In every chromosome and gene

Lie all that was, or might have been. All architectural tombs and thrones Are tossed to ruin in your bones.

Time earthquakes there all life that grows And all your future darkness knows, Take not these inner ruins to Rome, A sad man wisely stays at home; For if your melancholy goes

Where all is lost, then your loss grows And all the dark that self employs

Will teem —so travel then with joys. Or else in ruins consummate A death that waited long and late, And all the burning towns of blood Will shake and fall from sane and good, And you with ruined sight will see A lost and ruined Rome. And thee? Cracked statue mended by noon's light Yet innerscaped with soul's midnight. So go not traveling with mood Or lack of sunlight in your blood, Such traveling has double cost, When you and empire both are lost. When your mind storm-drains catacomb, And all seems graveyard rock in Rome— Tourist, go not.

Stay home. Stay home!