A little poem called "The Secret of Poetry."
When I wrote the poem, I didn't realize the first two
lines of it were funny until I was explaining to someone
the nature of my insomnia.
And I said to them, well, when I can't sleep, I think.
And when I think, I can't sleep.
These are set up in somewhat the same way.
When I was lonely, I thought of death.
When I thought of death, I was lonely.
I suppose this era will continue.
I shall enter each gray morning delighted by frost,
which is death, and the trees that stand alone in mist.
When I met my wife, I was lonely.
Our child, and her body is lonely.
I suppose this era will go on and on.
Mornings, I kiss my wife's cold lips.
Nights, her body dripping with mist.
This is the era that fascinates.
I suppose you are secretly lonely, thinking of death,
thinking of love.
I'd like please to leave on your sill
just one cold flower, whose beauty
would leave you inconsolable all day.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.