To Discourse Wonders: The Worker Speaks

Marek Makowski

I have had a most rare vision. I had a dream. Methought I was — there is no man can tell what. Methought I was — and methought I had — but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. 

Only poets complain about the paucity of things.

Only poets—and they laughed at me

When I rhymed about death, the sky, and the lion’s red teeth.

They said I was sad—they have not seen my hands.

They said I was sad—and words could say nothing

Of their love. Of the beauty that hides indoors.

Words are wormed wood and break like poetry

And young fools’ hope. But I stomp through the forest

For lumber. I have made things

That only nature’s fury can collapse.

Though when I look in a glass sometimes

I see not myself but a monster.

And I dream, I dream.

When lovers lie to sleep I wake

Alone. To work.

My hands are cold

Like concrete blocks.

And my heart sits cold like a brick.

                                                     I knew love

Once. I feasted like a king.

Fairies drifted from acorn cups

And my heart beat like music

In the moon-lit green.