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?
I was disappointed to find no comments on this poem, since, like all products of Stephen Crane, it is not only astounding, but also, mind-boggling. It took me a few reads and some help with difficult words, but i was able to conclude this poem is in the voice of God, disgusted with his silly humans for daring to compare him or identify him with anything material while also mocking them for thinking the Bible insignificant. Like usual, god cant seem to make up his mind.