  Donne (for example’s sake), Keats, Marlowe, Spenser, Blake, Shelley and Milton, Shakespeare and Chaucer, Skelton— We love them as we know them, But who could dare outgo them At their several arts, At their particular parts Of wisdom, power and knowledge? In the Poets’ College 10 Are no degrees nor stations, Comparisons, rivals, Stern examinations, Class declarations, Senior survivals; No creeds, religions, nations Combatant together With mutual damnations. Or tell me whether Shelley’s hand could take 20 The laurel wreath from Blake? Could Shakespeare make the less Chaucer’s goodliness? The poets of old, Each with his pen of gold Gloriously writing, Found no need for fighting, In common being so rich; None need take the ditch, Unless this Chaucer beats 30 That Chaucer, or this Keats With other Keats is flyting: See Donne deny Donne’s feats, Blake snatch at his own crown. Without comparison aiming high, Watching with no jealous eye A neighbour’s renown, Each in his time contended, But with a mood late ended, 40 Some manner now put by, Or force expended, Sinking a new well when the old ran dry. So like my masters I Voice my ambition loud, In prospect proud, Treading the poet’s road, In retrospect most humble, For I stumble and tumble, I spill my load. 50 But often, Half-way to sleep, On a mountain shagged and steep, The sudden moment on me comes With terrible roll of dream drums, Reverberations, cymbals, horns replying, When with standards flying, A cloud of horsemen behind, The coloured pomps unwind The Carnival wagons With their saints and their dragons 60 On the screen of my teeming mind, The Creation and Flood With our Saviour’s Blood And fat Silenus’ flagons, With every rare beast From the South and East, Both greatest and least, On and on, In endless variable procession. Of a ladder reared in the air, And I speak with strange tongues So the crowds murmur and stare, Then volleys again the blare Of horns, and summer flowers Fly scattering in showers, And the Sun rolls in the sky, While the drums thumping by Proclaim me.... Oh, then, when I wake Could I recovering take 80 And propose on this page The words of my rage And my blandishing speech Steadfast and sage, Could I stretch and reach The flowers and the ripe fruit Laid out at the ladder’s foot, Could I rip a silken shred From the banner tossed ahead, Could I call a double flam 90 From the drums, could the Goat Horned with gold, could the Ram With a flank like a barn-door, The dwarf, the blackamoor, Could Jonah and the Whale And the Holy Grail With the Sacking of Rome And Lot at his home, The Ape with his platter, Going clitter-clatter, 100 The Nymphs and the Satyr, And every other such matter Come before me here Standing and speaking clear With a “How do ye do?” And “Who are ye, who?” Could I show them so to you Oh then, then I could be The Prince of all Poetry 110 With never a peer, Seeing my way so clear To unveil mystery. Telling you of land and sea, Of Heaven blithe and free, How I know there to be Such and such Castles built in Spain, Telling also of Cockaigne, Of that glorious kingdom, Cand, Of the Delectable Land, 120 The land of Crooked Stiles, The Fortunate Isles, Of the more than three score miles That to Babylon lead, A pretty city indeed Built on a four-square plan, Of the land of the Gold Man Whose eager horses whinny In their cribs of gold, Of the lands of Whipperginny, 130 Of the land where none grow old. Especially I could tell Of the Town of Hell, A huddle of dirty woes And houses in endless rows Straggling across all space; Hell has no market-place, Nor point where four ways meet, Nor principal street, Nor barracks, nor Town Hall, 140 Nor shops at all, Nor rest for weary feet, Nor theatre, square, or park, Nor lights after dark, |
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