POPPIES OF THE RED YEAR

The words that I have written

To me become as poppies:

Deep angry disks of scarlet flame full-glowing in the stillness

Of a shut room.

Silken their edges undulate out to me,

Drooping on their hairy stems;

Flaring like folded shawls, down-curved like rockets starting

To break and shatter their light.

Wide-flaunting and heavy, crinkle-lipped blossom,

Darting faint shivers through me;

Globed Chinese lanterns on green silk cords a-swaying

Over motionless pools.

These are lamps of a festival of sleep held each night to welcome me,

Crimson-bursting through dark doors.

Out to the dull, blue, heavy fumes of opium rolling

From their rent red hearts, I go to seek my dream.