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Letter to John Boyd "— Varsity 1957

One misses the loudspeaker usual in such
A terminus; a sense of direction would set
The seal on this, our Jason's journey
For a paper fleece, framed by the mind's utility
And won on nightly wanderings through pencil
Charted seas. (No fears of tempests to disturb the peace.)

Too many certainties prevent our changing course.
Some government or aspiring merchant prince
Has marked us down already, as high-grade
Pennies for the public slot. Belly and backside
Regulate the trained mind, and habit like a scurvy
Consumes us till our senses rot.

Yet I remain disciple to the scholars' fact;
You well may ask what trick has served
To disengage belief from action. I think
The rank and file a franker crew but find
In exile here, a few, whose suffering
Spills over into nightmare, poem, or prayer.

The rest grind on, I fear their tutored
Fingers tampering with mind, machine and bomb.
Their reward is mental comfort, while the vacuum
Of the heart demands a soap-box opera,
Life, a well adjusted chart, where kisses
And statistics mix like apples in a cart.

Pardon that my mood's disquiet can shape
No tram-car sonnet or infest with flowers
The bulk of our Endeavour. My puffing
Intellect has long since ceased to strive
Beneath the pressure of a middle-class drive
To fill the empty hours with buried treasure.

Our voyage's final product is a trained mechanic
Who, armed with a master's ticket, cannot hope
To save more than himself from an early grave;
Though he wire the fuses in our box of flesh
Till kingdom come"—as indeed it will,
Complete with fire, thunder, sword and gun.