The Alchemists

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Man errs, till he has ceased to strive. ~ Goethe, Doctor Faustus

The perfect poets, if there be such things,

Want lines condensing life (but spirit’s weight

In them, with spirits’ lightness though), with wings

As lasered angels never brushed with hate.

These poets will refine the finest gold

Until transparency in it will make

Prophetic visions turning glacier scold

To warmth of potions curing every ache.

These lines will warp philosophies and faiths

To something far beyond the intellect

And Jesuit religion — then make wraiths

Of all except the soul of beauty’s sect.

  The outer things and inner things will well

    Inside the stanzas. Their ideals will swell.

~ Phillip Whidden