In Memory Of The Unknown Poet Robert Boardman Vaughn
But the essential advantage for a poet is not, to have a beautiful world with which to deal: it is to be able to see beneath both beauty and ugliness; to see the boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
T.
S.
It was his story.
It would always be his story.
It followed him; it overtook him finally— The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
Probably at the end he was not yet sorry,
Even as the boots were brutalizing him in the alley.
It was his story.
It would always be his story,
Blown on a blue horn, full of sound and fury,
But signifying,
O signifying magnificently The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
I picture the snow as falling without hurry To cover the cobbles and the toppled ashcans completely.
It was his story.
It would always be his story.
Lately he had wandered between St.
Mark’s Place and the Bowery,
Already half a spirit, mumbling and muttering sadly.
O the boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
All done now.
But I remember the fiery Hypnotic eye and the raised voice blazing with poetry.
It was his story and would always be his story— The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
Donald Justice
Other author posts
On The Death Of Friends In Childhood
We shall not ever meet them bearded in Nor sunning themselves among the bald of hell; If anywhere, in the deserted schoolyard at twilight,forming a ring, perhaps, or joining In games whose very names we have forgotten
Extraits
The Man Closing Up, from Night Light (1967), would make his bed, If he could sleep on it He would make his bed with white And disappear into the white,
Absences
It's snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote, Like the memory of scales descending the white Of a childhood piano—outside the window, palms
To A Ten-Months Child
Late arrival, One would think of blaming For hesitating so Who, setting his hand to
