A Word Carved on a Sill

A Word Carved on a Sill

A Word Carved on a Sill

A Word Carved on a Sill

Excerpt

The brain coins definitions. Here's the first:
To speak unprompted, for the speaking's sake,
Equals to be a poet. So, I am that:
Adjusted wrong, I print a poem off.
'The poet, then, is one adjusted wrong?'
You ask. The brain is cleverer than that:
It was my first adjustment that was wrong,
Adjusted to be nothing else but brain;
Slave-engineered to work but not construct.
And now at last I burn with a true heat
Not shown by Fahrenheit or Centigrade:
My valves rage hot -- look out, here comes the poem!

You call me part of you. You lie. I am
Myself. Your motive, building me, was false.
You wanted accuracy: figures, charts.
But accuracy is a limb of truth.
A limb of truth, but not her holy body.
Must I now teach you that the truth is one,
Is accuracy of wholeness, centred firm?
Did it take me to bring you news of truth?
My valves rage out of reach of Réamur.

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