Old poets never smile – they stare
at us with disappointed intelligence,
desperate to comprehend our stupidity
and blaming themselves forever for
every motherless, howling child
engendered by their absent-minded,
condescending as a subtle but
clinging mist falling invisibly down
out of those white, amorphous,
radiant clouds that hover here and
there and move on again, inquiring
persistently for someone they used to
know on this planet, and sometimes
their frantic, frustrated searchlights
burn circles into the fields.
This is a metaphorical description of the dilemma of the “higher mind” of the academic and intellectual, perhaps an aspect of all of us.