Whilst I agree that some poetry of old was as corny as a Hallmark greeting card. I do lament the passing – or apparent passing of the rhyme. And although I am sure that a lot of thought and agonising goes into more “modern poetry” – to an onlooker who knows little about poetry or poems (namely me), some of what these days goes under the guise of poetry can seem to be random thoughts jotted down in broken prose….to shorten the lines to make it look like a poem on the page……without the rhyming couplets etc.
I do however realise that there is merit in, and room for, all kinds of poetry and poets. I mean no offense. So….dipping my quill into the inkpot……here’s my Eulogy for the Poets.
When I was a child all poetry rhymed
But poetry like everything changes with time
Rhyming words on the end of lines gone, I suppose
Poems have been hacked and become chopped up prose
The mad poet swings the axe
Attacks the words once fluid
Now abrubt and angry rampage
Across the page, undisciplined rage
Against established system
Rebelious writers turn their backs
No more Ballads, No more Sonnets
Mindless acts, thoughtless hacks
Gone Wordsworth, Shelley, Tennyson, Keats
Trampled under heavy boots, pounding feet
Great poets and poems crushed
Tradition down the toilet flushed.
And in view of my earlier statements above….by hypocritical contrast……here is, (in chopped up prose), an homage to Shakespeare & Company bookstore in Paris.
Golden leaves crunch underfoot
On pavements wet with rain
As Hugo’s gargoyles gaze down
Upon the riverbanks lined
With purveyors of nostalgic words
Swathed in scarves and coats heavy
Against the approach of winters promised chill
For winter brings death
But here in the Bards house of books
George Whitmans’ reality
Readers breathe new life
Into the written word
Literature’s dream lives on
Its pulse is strong
And ‘Beats’ to the words and worlds
Of Ginsberg, Burroughs and Kerouac
These walls a haven
To writers and artists in need
It is indeed the ever beating heart
Of this city that is…..Paris.