(in memoriam Herbert Read, 1893-1968)
Radical words, radical lines,
sounds that cringe or howl.
Applaud each experimental growl
or be left behind.
Doubt must clothe itself in certainty,
must posit indecision as a frailty
greater than failure.
Fear of the high-pitched bowl
murked gold in cautious gray.
Summers wasted in subtle play
decoying the traditionalist scold.
Love’s progress by way of gallery
and thence to street? No, not really.
Nor in my utopia.
The theoretical life follows close
upon the echoes of the shattered
world: all lost things that mattered
may be now what matter most.
The year of death spilled a treasure
of surety and doubt in equal measure.
To dream was radical.