“Erudite and burnished poets seek
Pliant strength from Latin, French, and Greek
Phrases, finding English incomplete.
Or do they conceal their real defeat,
Like some juggler, faltering, who drops
Circling, rapid balls of words and stops
To relate obscure, pretentious tales,
Hiding nervous moments where he fails?”
Torban, visiting from Mars, became
Silent, and his smile, like mental fame,
Rescued the obscurity of flesh.
Then I answered with a careful, fresh
Purchase from the scorned shop of my mind.
“Men must advertise the things they find.
Erudition, tired after work,
Flirts with plotting vanities that lurk
Poutingly upon the edge of thought.
Languages and legends men have caught
Practice an irrelevant parade
With emotions morbidly arrayed.”
Torban gave the blunt wealth of his smile.
“We, in Mars, have but one tongue whose guile
Does not yield to little, vain designs.
Feelings are fermented thoughts whose wines
Bring an aimless fierceness to the mind.
And a row of eyes, convinced and blind,
But we sip them carefully, for we
Do not like your spontaneity.
Children babbling on the rocks in Mars,
Shrieking as they dart in tinseled cars,
Are spontaneous, but as they grow,
We remove this noisy curse and throw
Nimbleness to rule their tongues and ears—
Juggling games that slay their shouts and fears.
Novelty to you is almost crime:
We decorate the treachery of time!”