  Astronomer and biologist And chemical analyst and microscopist, Observer of men’s involuted shells Where they conceal their hate and even their love Under insipid ooze or nacreous stuff. Tracer of criss-cross steps made when great hells Kept lime as soft as wax Which thereupon took the imprint of the air From gnat-like wings of joy or shadowy care. He makes hard secrets stand in the cul de sac’s Entrance and face him till he lays all bare That eyes hold or heart of blood contains, And curious traits in diverse curious brains, And starved desires in hearts and hopes forgot Under the sifting ashes of one’s lot. X-ray photographer who flashes What’s in you out of you with sudden crashes Of wit or oratory in a flood. He samples and tests the book’s, also your blood. Shows what you are and whence you came, And who your kindred are, and what your flame In heat and color is. Poet and wag, Eggs, rabbits, silver globes; the old engram! Scoffer with reverence, visioned, quick to damn, Yet laugh at, looking keenly through the sham. Confessing his own sins, devoid of shame. He knows himself and laughs, Or blames himself as he would others blame. A naughty boy who kicks away the staff Which poor decrepits walk by, nearly blind, Then hurrying up with varied thought to find Medicinal clay with which dim eyes to heal. What is the human secret but Proteus’? And who can catch the old man but his kind? He was Poseidon’s herdsman, knew the streams Of early being, sea-filled ponds and sluices, Where life took birth through elemental dreams. And Proteus glanced with lightning and divined The cause of Bacchus’ madness. But at noon He counted his sea-calves and ocean-sheep On Carpathos where waters made a tune Following the Orphic sun out of the deep— Then in his cave he hid him, turned to sleep.... So runs our life to change! and who can catch The Protean thought must watch, And be adept at wrestling, in the chase. And know the god whatever be his face, And extravagant dolphins play, in silences Of noon or midnight. So John Cowper Powys You stand before us gesturing, shoulder bent A little like King Richard, frizzed of hair, Rolling your eye for secrets, for the word. The thresher of your mind is eloquent With hulls and flakes of words, until at last The kernel itself pops out, not long deferred.... Here is our wrestler then, Hunter of secrets of creative souls. Eluded he may be, he tries again. His hand slips clutching at the irised shoals Of rapturous thought. And at times his eyes Are blinded by a light, or a disguise. But finally both eye and hand Obey the infallible senses’ brave command— He catches Proteus then, and with a shout, The god shouts too, and we who watch the bout Join in the panic of their merriment! |
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