At 85 Harold Bloom divined the demon:
Thinking each poet had one. Tormented
By not knowing the source he saw the poets
Selling their souls for handfuls of beautiful
Words. If we’re all alike, and why shouldn’t
We be, and he can’t create poetry
An external force must spring forth
Like a swan upon Leda or Mercury
Whispering occult messages
In the poets demented ears.
Mayakovsky hid himself away
In his cell-like room until his
Mind cleared -- then when he looked out
His world was filled with glitter
Beckoning until he stepped outside,
Reached up, and grabbed some. It
Might have been waiting there for
Bloom too but instead he sought what
Could be turned, none of which
Contained as much gold as a poet
Needs -- pages in their books.
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