Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO ONE WHO WOULD BE A POET, by AMOS RUSSEL WELLS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO ONE WHO WOULD BE A POET, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: In centre and circumference of all
Last Line: Of noble thinking is the noble thought.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets


In centre and circumference of all
A Somewhat lies, mysterious and vast,
The woven substance of all substances,
The face and motion of appearances,
The thought of thought and very soul of souls.
Men call it Beauty, or men call it God,
Or dare not name it; all confess it there,
Though some confess it by denying it.
There is no place without Thee, Beauty, God!
Where water breaks to light and loveliness,
Or festers in the mud; where mountains rise
Amid the stately sweep of shade and sun;
Where deep in rumbling burrows men extort
The girders of their cities; where a child
Beckons his comrade, or two lovers kiss
Beneath the benediction of the woods,
Or sober statesmen write a nation's doom,
Or hucksters wrangle in the market-place,
Or some dear mother croons her babe to rest;
Wherever solids ring or colors glow
Or foul or fragrant steals upon the air;
Wherever being breathes, or waits in dust,
Or never was or will be, in the dread
And gloomy riddles of unfathomed space, --
Still there, still here, and binding all in all,
Yet parting each from each in endless forms,
Discern the One, in whom it all is one;
Discern the One, and tremble, and adore!

'Tis Sight; who sees it, first begins to see.
'Tis Life; who touches it, begins to live.
'Tis Thought; who knows it, in that hour is wise.
'Tis Love; who feels it, never is alone.

This is to be a poet: to perceive
The laws of empire in a tavern brawl,
Arcturus as a cottage lamp, the sum
Of beauty in the shadow of a leaf.
This is to be a poet: well to know
The subtle symmetry that flows through all,
Forming a beetle in a lion's mold,
Painting the sky with colors of the field,
Attuning to the spheric harmonies
The whistle of a factory at noon.

Never the poet finds a common thing.
Never the poet hears a common sound.
Never the poet meets a common man.

And he who thus attains the Oversoul,
The Undersoul, the Central Soul of souls,
Speaks not about it, but becomes its tongue;
Travels not to it, but becomes its feet;
Yes, prays not to it, but becomes its hands.
And so the poet's poems are not his;
But if they rise in some cathedral dome,
Or float upon an organ's royal tones,
Or breathe in eloquent canvas to the eye,
Or singing lift the covers of a book,
Or melt insensate marble into man,
Or fashion happily a perfect home,
Or send a smile into a darkened day, --
Howe'er the poet plies his devious art,
It is not he that works, nor toils by rote,
With plan and programme conscious of himself;
But he is one possessed, commanded, bound.
A blessed serf, a rapturous instrument.

And thus he runs at counter to the world,
The prim, dull, earthy world, that cannot see,
Nor hear, nor feel, nor ever understand, --
Blind men that crawl upon the crust of things,
Grasping and garnering they know not what;
Grasping and hoarding it, they know not why.

Thither to slip again from whence he rose,
Back to that surface fumbling in the dark.
This is the poet's hell. Oh, comrade mine,
Come, hold we fast together, lest we fall.
What voices call us, bold, imperative!
What hands lay hold upon us, white and soft!
What lures are spread before us, golden bright!
Why, poetry it seems is courage too,
And self-control and all heroic arms.
We serve a jealous deity, praise God!
Whose constancy would mate our constancy
As stanch horizons fit the bending skies.

Live to the centre! Masterfully part
From glittering shallows and ignoble shows.
Live to the centre, where the substance is.
Live to the centre, where endurance is.
Live to the centre, where are joy and peace.
Clasp souls with Him, the Poet Oversoul,
And live with Him a poem evermore.
Then be it written fair in script or stone
Or marshalled sounds or hues imperial,
'Tis well; or be it never writ at all,
'Tis also well; or be it praised of men,
Or tossed into oblivion, 'tis well.
For poetry is poetry's reward,
And life is blessed with living, and the crown
Of noble thinking is the noble thought.





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