Balked

Because some of the greatest men
took their heavy sorrow and set about
fashioning wondrous music from it—
and the poet in his hopeless grief
was able to set up mighty [unclear: worded] monuments,
I thought that I having suffered hell of pain
and soul torn into shreds,
I thought because of this
Life would have tormented my heart long enough
to wring out some utterances
worthy to blaze ever in the sight of men—
And convinced, I set about with new face and hope
to mould a masterpiece (from jagged toughs and words)
undreamt of—to fashion beauty from ugliness—
But I was like a poor tree
tossing on turbulent floods,
wrenched out, roots broken, useless.

In the air was the reeking smell
of burut fat fried onions—
in the air was interminable sound
of jangling trains, raucous radio,
and traffic of the screaming street.
God! my heart stuck there and mocked,
listening, jeering—
I was hemmed in by some cell of noise
that had stolen loveliness from living.
I could not write . . .

By Kathrin Boll.