Constantly risking absurdity

                                             and death

            whenever he performs

                                        above the heads

                                                            of his audience

   the poet like an acrobat

                                 climbs on rime

                                          to a high wire of his own making

and balancing on eyebeams

                                     above a sea of faces

             paces his way

                               to the other side of day

    performing entrechats

                               and sleight-of-foot tricks

and other high theatrics

                               and all without mistaking

                     any thing

                               for what it may not be

       For he’s the super realist

                                     who must perforce perceive

                   taut truth

                                 before the taking of each stance or step

in his supposed advance

                                  toward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waits

                                     with gravity

                                                to start her death-defying leap

      And he

             a little charleychaplin man

                                           who may or may not catch

               her fair eternal form

                                     spreadeagled in the empty air

                  of existence

Women                                 Or they

   should be                              should be

      pedestals                              little horses

         moving                                 those wooden

            pedestals                              sweet

               moving                                 oldfashioned

                  to the                                    painted

                     motions                                 rocking

                        of men                                  horses

                        the gladdest things in the toyroom

                           The                                       feelingly

                        pegs                                     and then

                     of their                                 unfeelingly

                  ears                                     To be

               so familiar                            joyfully

            and dear                               ridden

         to the trusting                      rockingly

      fists                                    ridden until

   To be chafed                        the restored

egos dismount and the legs stride away

Immobile                            willing

   sweetlipped                         to be set

      sturdy                                 into motion

         and smiling                         Women

            women                                 should be

               should always                        pedestals

                  be waiting                              to men

4. “i thank You God for most this amazing” by e. e. cummings

Completing my gaggle is this gem, in celebration of all the effervescent springtime writer walkabouts I’ve been enjoying. This one’s pretty straight-forward so instead of a link to analysis, here is a cool choral rendition of the poem for your ears.