Patrick Kavanagh

A Poem is Born

Pain! pain!
A poem is born.
The accouchement sheets are soiled,
The membrane seal of morn
Is torn.
A new dawn breaks
On the cliché peaks.
Let us drink the lunatic wine
Let us eat
The bread of Nietzchean strength.
A dead thought is a fire in the street - 
A poem is born.
Through nine black griefs
It beat in the womb,
Nine bitter beliefs
The poet fed it;
Nine laughs of scorn
The world supplied.
A poem is born.
A new truth singing in the vital corn.
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