Why such harsh machinery? Why, to write down the stuff and people of everyday, must poems be dressed up in gold, or in old and fearful stone?
I want verses of felt or feather which scarcely weigh, mild verses with the intimacy of beds where people have loved and dreamed. I want poems stained by hands and everydayness.
Verses of pastry which melt into milk and sugar in the mouth, air and water to drink, the bites and kisses of love. I long for eatable sonnets, poems of honey and flour.
Vanity keeps prodding us to lift ourselves skyward or to make deep and useless tunnels underground. So we forget the joyous love-needs of our bodies. We forget about pastries. We are not feeding the world.
In Madras a long time since, I saw a sugary pyramid, a tower of confectionery - one level after another, and in the construction, rubies, and other blushing delights, medieval and yellow.
Someone dirtied his hands to cook up so much sweetness.
Brother poets from here and there, from earth and sky, from Medellin, from Veracruz, Abyssinia, Antofagasta, do you know the recipe for honeycombs?
Let's forget about all that stone.
Let your poetry fill up the equinoctial pastry shop our mouths long to devour - all the children's mouths and the poor adults' also. Don't go on without seeing, relishing, understanding all these hearts of sugar.
Don't be afraid of sweetness.
With or without us, sweetness will go on living and is infinitely alive, forever being revived, for it's in a man's mouth, whether he's eating or singing, that sweetness has its place.