Poem by Stephen Crane

* * *

A little ink more or less!
I surely can’t matter?
Even the sky and the opulent sea,
The plains and the hills, aloof,
Hear the uproar of all these books.
But it is only a little ink more or less.

What?
You define me God with these trinkets?
Can my misery meal on an ordered walking
Of surpliced numskulls?
And a fanfare of lights?
Or even upon the measured pulpitings
Of the familiar false and true?
Is this God?
Where, then, is hell?
Show me some bastard mushroom
Sprung from a pollution of blood.
It is better.

Where is God?

1. A man toiled on a burning road
2. Upon the road of my life
3. The successful man has thrust himself
4. I stood upon a highway
5. Mystic shadow, bending near me

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