That I write
And want to be a poet
And he too saying it
That he is a poet.
My God, in a poet’s corner, lie I pushed in,
One poet praising another,
One saying about oneself a poet,
One praising another
In mutual admiration.
Their faces and moods fear I,
What they take into,
What they think,
What they feel in,
My God, let me slip and walk away from here
As from the mental asylum I can sense revolution.
The poetasters, non-poets, local editors, commoners,
All calling themselves poets,
Pseudo-pandits
Knowing Bramha,
The petty-petty men
Of petty-petty things.