H.D. - from the Tribute to the Angels section of Trilogy

[13]

"What is that jewel color?"

green-white, opalescent,

with under-layer of changing blue,

with rose-vein; a white agate

with a pulse uncooled that beats yet,

faint blue-violet;

it lives, it breathes,

it gives off--fragrance?

I do not know what it gives,

a vibration that we can not name

for there is no name for it;

my patron said, "name it";

I said, I can not name it,

there is no name;

he said,

"invent it".

[14]

I can not invent it,

I said it was agate,

I said, it lived, it gave--

fragrance--was near enough

to explain that quality

for which there is no name;

I do not want to name it,

I want to watch its faint

heart-beat, pulse-beat

as it quivers, I do not want

to talk about it,

I want to minimize thought,

concentrate on it

till I shrink,

dematerialize

and am drawn into it.

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THIS is how I feel about poetry. It's okay. I can get into breaking it down, getting to Meaning. But generally I want to minimize thought, concentrate on it till I shrink, dematerialize and am drawn into it.