PABURT

These grand and fatal movements toward death: the grandeur of the mass Makes pity a fool, the tearing pity For the atoms of the mass, the persons, the victims, makes it seem monstrous To admire the tragic beauty they build. It is beautiful as a river flowing or a slowly gathering Glacier on a high mountain rock-face, Bound to plow down a forest, or as frost in November, The gold and flaming death-dance for leaves, Or a girl in the night of her spent maidenhood, bleeding and kissing. I would burn my right hand in a slow fire To change the future … I should do foolishly. The beauty of modern Man is not in the persons but in the Disastrous rhythm, the heavy and mobile masses, the dance of the Dream-led masses down the dark mountain.

Like the unshaven prickle of a sharpened razor, this new coldness in the air, the pang of something intangible. Filling our eyes, the sinusitis of perfume without the perfume. And then love's vertigo, love's exactitude, this snow, this transfiguration we never quite get over.

We are inherently social creatures, but modern life tends to compartmentalise us instead of bringing us together.

Instead of trying to invent a plot that moves, use the movement of wind, or water, children, people, elevators, balls, etc. as a poem might celebrate these. And use your freedom to experiment with visual ideas; your mistakes will not get you fired.