Je Est Un Autre. (i Is Someone

The Poet Makes Himself A Voyant Through A Long, Immense Reasoned Deranging Of All His Senses. All The Forms Of Love, Of Suffering, Of Madness; He Tries To Find Himself, He Exhausts In Himself All The Poisons, To Keep Only Their Quintessences.

O Seasons, O Castles, What Soul Is Without Flaws? All Its Lore Is Known To Me, Felicity, It Enchants Us All.

There Shall Be Poets! When Woman's Unmeasured Bondage Shall Be Broken, When She Shall Live For And Through Herself, Man--hitherto Detestable--having Let Her Go, She, Too, Will Be Poet! Woman Will Find The Unknown! Will Her Ideational Worlds Be Different From Ours? She Will Come Upon Strange, Unfathomable, Repellent, Delightful Things; We Shall Take Them, We Shall Comprehend Them.

The Northern Lights Rise Like A Kiss To The Sea

And From Then On, I Bathed In The Poem Of The Sea, Star-infused, And Opalescent, Devouring Green Azures