The Poet Of The New School Speaks

I'm great and
I know it.
People can't understand me.
I can't understand myself.
I don't want to.
If I did understand myself
I wouldn't be great.
Listen now:
'The moon reels and the
Phantom passes twice and thrice
The death damp hand
Across my brow.
O what of joy?
O - what of grief?
Darkness—blank — a sob in the throat.
O phantom, phantom, phantom!'
Pretty good, eh?
Especially if it has
Some little, smudgy, inky
Pictures strung along the edges.
I used to write about
Men and women, back yards,
Plain courtships, flowers and other things
That people understood.
Now I write lines that have
No meaning, because they are
Fragments of dreams that
Were never dreamt.
' A soul writhed long
In its purple belongings.
O drip of blood!
O drip of blood!
Caught up in the wan hand of sleep
And clotted with the dawn.'
Do you notice the ' O '—
The upper-case ' O ' ?
I use that a great deal.
If anyone will tell me
What I am writing about
I will let him smoke my
Opium pipe all afternoon.
These little, twisted,
Ugly, whirligig pictures
Have nothing to do with
The lines I am writing.
If I tell about a midnight trance,
I have a picture of a sunrise.
If the lines mention something
About a maiden with snaky hair
The picture is that of a demon
With a forked tail.
This is genius.
The world didn't find it out
Until last year.
There are but two colors
In all this world — yellow
And another shade of yellow.
I am very yellow myself,
But people say I am great.
I write my stuff on yellow paper
And use yellow ink.
Excuse me for awhile;
I'm full of hop.