Drive On—poem

"I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter."

Art enters the household
Uninvited, unbidden
Of her own accord
Hidden from all eyes
Except for him
For whose sake she comes
And enters the household
Stands in the living room
And the boy for whose sake
She has come is nine
Or ten, eleven or twelve
Is at the couch and will see
Many things he did not see before
Art Deco and Gothic
Baroque and the Antiquity
Westerns and things made in Japan
What a great relief
From the great vulgarity
The chitter chatter
And the dumb animal suffering
Of the braindead cattle
That life breeds in great numbers
And shows the boy, nine or ten
Eleven or twelve
Something that another
Intelligent and sensitive
Kind and generous man
Made as a dictator
Ruling his subordinates
With the purity of purpose
That all art requires
In order to be made
What a great joy
That when art enters the household
She brings in her train
The ten million artists
That are always present
In this great tradition
For any serious artist
Puts in his work
Which is the justification of his life
His homage to his masters
His allusions to his teachers
His parodies of his rivals
And will never stand alone
But forever stretch back
In the ligaments of the work
To the anger of Achilles
And the towers of Ilium
Of the primate poet
Never rivalled or equalled
Who showed that in war
There is a greater teacher than violence
And that friendship is stronger than love
Said Aristotle: "Pain unhinges
And destroys the nature of him
Who undergoes it." I on my part
Will not disagree with the philosopher
But will only add
That to be dependent on
What you were given
Is a kind of slavery
And in shorelessness alone
Dwells the life
The hope and the resurrection
Of wisdom, and so the christians say
Be in the world but not of it
So does philosophy say
That you must see what is your own
As one among many
And must know the minds of many men
Even if to have contempt
And foam well the fount
Of human hatred
Which runs deep and strong
And which runs every day of every month
In all those who fate
Gave a hard lot
To suffer intensely and unjustly
For years and years and years
And years upon years upon years
From when they were small children on
To when they were supposed to have become
Full and accomplished men
Granted of course
That they had the brains, the brawn
And the grits, and the feeling soul
To understand what injustice is
In the first place
For the dumb animal masses
Lacking understanding
Cannot suffer from those things
That are an exquisite torture
To the wellborn gentlemen of fine parts
Who were misfortunate enough
To be born into an era of democracy
"Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed."

the indo-european friendship club will return