So The Self Under The

Where Are The Gods The Gods Hate Us The Gods Have Run Away The Gods Have Hidden In Holes The Gods Are Dead Of The Plague They Rot And Stink Too There Never Were Any Gods There’s Only Death

The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices, And The Sun Rises Upon A World Well-tried And Old.

The Inmost Spirit Of Poetry, In Other Words, Is At Bottom, In Every Recorded Case, The Voice Of Pain – And The Physical Body, So To Speak, Of Poetry, Is The Treatment By Which The Poet Tries To Reconcile That Pain With The World.

The Shell The Sea Fills My Ear With Sand And With Fear. You May Wash Out The Sand, But Never The Sound Of The Ghost Of The Sea That Is Haunting Me.

So The Self Under The Eye Lies, Attendant And Withdrawn.