Joy is no place for a poet to dwell,
Words will escape, when prominent is hearts swell.
Gone is your passion, fires quelled,
To the devil of happiness, your soul to sell.
What is this misery, what is this hell,
Of losing ones vernacular, on face fell.
So rebel, rebel, if you want to tell,
And to remain a poet, ring proses bell,
Leave joy for the squandered,
For the empty shells,
And joyless, forever revel.
There are certain fuels for poets and comfort is not one of them. People who are comfortable can’t summon inspiration to manifest to activate creativity and artistry of any kind or if it does, it is superficial, contrived or lacking.
Joy to the poet is like women to a fighter before a fight. Their legs are taken from under them and they lose their mongrel. Poets need mongrel. They need hurt, pain, anger, jealousy, pride, longing and agitation.
Love is not the same as joy so it is not to be mistaken. Many a love poet although speaking in tongues of ecstasy is far from joyous.