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Poetic madness is a disease of some sort
As the poets are the diseased fellows,
Poetic fire, fever and frenzy gripping them
And they shaking, trembling to put down
The unputdownable,
Like the genie haunting them
And if the pen is not in their hands,
They will write with a charcoal
On the walls of the rooms
Of the house.
Poetic madness, what to say about
The fire and frenzy, the fever and fret
Of poetry,
The inward desire to be a great poet,
A great man,
A super man,
An intellectual,
A man creative and knowledgeable?
O man, stand you,
Here lives a great man in his villa,
You disturb him not!
Just like monarchs, live they, think they
As thought they about
As dreamy as Kubla Khan in Xanadu,
As ruthless as Genghis Khan,
The Mongol emperor
Or Timur,
Some Hitler or Mussolini
Think they themselves,
Seeing their self-image
In the mirror of fame,
As for a self-assessment of their own,
With which there’s nothing to compromise.
The poets are the most inactive people,
I mean the theoretical fellows,
Never practical,
Never active,
I mean the neurotic fellows
Suffering from hypersensitivity and emotional disorder,
Psychoneurosis, schizophrenia and insomnia,
The highly sentimental, highly sensitive fellows,
Emotional and disturbed,
Self-conscious and prestigious enough. |
