Block upon block upon piece after part,
Fiction is set up as tall buildings start;
Poetry’s stuff is the beat of the heart.
Articles written are so cut-and-dried,
With well-chosen words that are frigid inside;
Poetry springs, like a wild ocean tide.
Ministers threats, while the good shekels roll,
Weekly pretend that to “Save” is their goal;
Poetry’s rhythm descends from the soul.
Orators’ words, with their texture of soap,
Still– for the truth–have to fumblingly grope;
Poetry’s words are humanity’s hope.
Mankind is narrow; his perfidy jars;
His is the seamy side; his are the scars;
Poetry’s scope is the swing of the stars.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 10, 1946
