Is poetry dead? I ask myself
Because poets no longer rhyme.
We no longer pair forbidden couples,
Making them dance this phonetic tango,
Hand in hand yet standing lines apart,
A visual, sensational, arduous art.
"Listen to us; listen to the sounds
We make when you move us all around.”
Now poets focus on what feels good to write
And not what we like to read or hear.
The audience is forgotten in this rite,
This self-serving, superficial, insincere
Performance of physical and mental pain
Of meaningless word vomit and snobbish prose
To remind the audience, once again,
"I am a poet! Only I can compose.”
The song of your tears, ballad of sorrows.
I can voice the weight of the rocks in your throat
When light announces unwelcome morrow,
Shout “I can write, truly write!" but just to gloat.
Yet, in modern or postmodern unstructured,
Loose, lazy form of so-called poetry,
What I see is a desire to write,
To continue a fruitful legacy.
We are writers, singers, poets alike.
Poetry is not dead; it is dancing,
Frolicking, running, flying, shouting