Wednesday, June 6, 2007


These poet words, nuggets out of corruption
Or jewels dug or dung or speech from flesh
Still bloody red, still half afraid to plunge
In the ceaseless waters foaming over death.

These poet words, nuggets no jeweler sells
Across the counter of the world’s confusion
But far or near, internal or external
Burning the agony of earth’s complaint.

These poet words have secrets locked in them
Like nuggets laden with the younger sun.
Who will unlock must first himself be locked.
Who will be locked must first himself unlock.


Martin Carter