“Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.”
To choose the real over the imaginary is a dangerous act. When one forfeits the imagination to the intellect, one mistakenly loses the one quality that distinguished him from the animal, the molecular being.
To sacrifice the spiritual to the real is to starve the soul and feed the body; to murder the beauty of the poet, the painter, the singer of songs.
I often wondered as I ran barefoot along “the bright and blue of water” (Stephens) whether there were really people who could not appreciate the whisper of a quiet day, the beautiful contrast of shades of dirt, the erotic torture of a changing sky.
“i thank You God for most this amazing day” (Cummings) I would whisper as water splashed over and about my unquiet legs. “Legs.” I then thought. “Jambes. Hair: Cheveaux. Sunlight: La lumiere de soleil. Shore: La rive. L‘eau; la terre, courir.” And then the day was lost as I translated my thoughts into French.