I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with Truth.
So many people in San Francisco came from somewhere else, suitcases filled with their own complex histories and desires.
“I don’t have a poem called ‘Snow,’ and I’m not going to the theater this evening. Your newspaper will look like it’s made a mistake.”
“Don’t be so sure. There are those who despise us for writing the news before it happens. They fear us not because we are journalists but because we can predict the future; you should see how amazed they are when things turn out exactly as we’ve written them. And quite a few things do happen only because we’ve written them up first. This is what modern journalism is all about. I know you won’t want to stand in the way of our being modern – you don’t want to break our hearts – so that is why I am sure you will write a poem called ‘Snow’ and then come to the theater to read it.”
The silence of snow, thought the man sitting just behind the bus driver. If this were the beginning of a poem, he would have called the thing he felt inside him the silence of snow.
It isn’t enough even to be a poet…that’s why politics still casts such a shadow over our lives. But even having said this, neither would find it in him to add what he could not admit even to himself: It’s because we failed to find happiness in poetry that we find ourselves longing for the shadow of politics.