WHAT KNOWS THE MOLE

Somebody wrote me a compliment that wasn't effusive enough. When you're me, that's pretty offensive. So I wrote the following brief response:


~~~~~

Damned with faint praise —
         left handed, half-hearted,
Tepid and bland — as if I move to raise
         Just now myself, just now have started
Vaguely wending down too dull, too flat a way —
         Myself possessing only that mere
And all-too-common share of (dare we say?)
         Talent. This incomplete compliment, here
So glibly handed down....
                                  What says the crow
         Of skylark song? — the hacking daw, its parching
Voice of grating rock. What thinks the toad
         Of phosphorescent glory, of dolphins’ arching
Grace, the spray of sun-dripped dew? What dreams the troll,
         Dank and matted monster, reviled thing,
Loathsome freak of filth? What knows the mole
         Of soaring heights, of eagles’ breadth of wing,
Of piercing Heaven’s peerless, pearled bowl,
         Of glory rising up from hearts that sing?


Does it somewhat please him? Is it “quite
         Amusing” and knit, oh, “rather well. . .
Considering”? This?
                              This? — of power, might? —
         So fierce and terrible, so dire, fell,
So potent, awesome, great and grand? — which grinds
         The hills and blasts like thunder down to hell? —
That shimmers, scintillates, benumbs and blinds
         And burns like radiation every cell,
Every deepest part, and tears and haunts the mind
         So utterly that ever after sight
Is shades of gray and color has no hue
         And taste has lost its savour — dull, trite,
Fossilized, entropic, cold and untrue,
         And why? Why?
                               You could have sipped from out the stream
Of genius, its waters’ crystal blue
         Kindly offered from my hand, that you might dream
Along with me. I should have seen, and known —
         So hopeless, useless, dreams. You’ve spilled your share
Into the dust (now mud) — upon the stones
         (So shiny!). What remains? Unrecognized despair.

_____


I remain, again,

Your Very Bloated Monster