Astonishment
B
Barry Middleton
0
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the poet held no malice
he was what he was
and he lifted his chalice
he stood at the precipice
that was the frontispiece
of all allusion to illusion
his imagined imagining
the work of solitary mind
was not admonishment
it was not condemnation
of the old or of the new
it was only what he felt
it was his astonishment
the rose frosted in ice
the relentless fire of war
a view that was his view
that this alone is poetry
was all of what he knew
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