harold bloom

How shall I climb

When the ladder

Is not mine?

How shall I reach

Thine ear

When such is not my speech?

How shall I engender

Words

When diction, close,

In other bosoms sleep?

I am a madhouse

Closed to the weeping

I am a tempest

Whose eye is not his

I am a whisper of a Man

I cannot know

I attempt faultless

Somersaults

In lands not my own

I am anxious

In the doing

I am unfree

In all I see

I mouth and bend

The golden quill of greatness

I mourn the pen

That has written

Both future and present lines

Marking all the neat bottles of ink

That will never be mine

Either to write with

Or to be

Dan Corjescu teaches at the University of Tübingen’s “Studium Professionale” Program


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