Classic Poem

An Essay on and at the New Poetry

As I look out the window
Precisely to my left,
Of thoughts, or old or novel,
I am bereft.

There was a time when that would
Have worried me a lot;
That was in the old days. ...
Now it does not.

Not even an emotion
Have I to put in print.
A vague, a blurred impression,
Or half a hint;

A spurious description
Of what I think I see
May put me in the forefront
Of poetry.

I see an apartment building,
It's made of stone and bricks;
The windows are glass, it seems to me;
The floors are six.

The apartment just across from me —
Nobody seems to be in it —
But someone may come to the window
Most any minute.

A taxicab is passing,
And in the street five boys
Are making a good deal of
Irritating noise.

It would be irritating
To an old-fashioned bard,
But for us of the modern method
Nothing is hard.

I remember, in the old days,
I couldn't write for the noise
Made by inconsiderate
Playing boys.

That was when I had to
Seek the magic word.
How silly were the old days,
And how absurd!

In the silly old days
I'd have worked all day,
And I'd have felt obliged to have
Something to say.

I can not sell the old songs
I sold long years ago.
Well, let it not be said of me
That I am slow.

As, looking out the window
Precisely to my left,
Of thoughts, or old or novel,
I am bereft.