Yeats

I would find by the edge of that water

The collar-bone of a hare

Worn thin by the lapping of water,

And pierce it through with a gimlet, and stare . . .

—William Butler Yeats

We love him for his widening gyre

and gong-tormented sea;

the nine bean rows he dreamt of

on the Lake Isle of Innisfree;

the Irish airman in his dialogue with death

—but if he felt that way, why join the RAF?

All said and done, Yeats was a foolish man.

And you're one too. We do the best we can.

Poetry makes things happen

only when it really is poetry

and not mere jumbled thoughts and words

assembled by a mixed-up mind.

How then to tell one from the other kind

and differentiate among the tweetie birds?

Thursday, October 5. 2026