There is a problem with some modern poetry,
And it seems to be spreading from what I can see,

What once was a staid field left to lovers and friends,
Was recently invaded by those with ill ends,

I'd say most modern poetry misses the point,
What should be emotional arrives all disjoint,

The poems say on their face, exactly what's said,
They leave nothing of substance to stay in the head,

The poets, with vehement airs, words that cut quick,
Abandon all the rhyme for a bare bludgeon or stick,

Free verse they so name it, though nothing is e'er free,
They give up that which makes most of poetry be,

In their haste to shock the core, emote and move on,
They loose the depth more considered verse would have borne,

Their modern rush and throwing off of their restraint,
Has dulled the palette of the pictures they paint,

It's within confines that we find true expression,
The rules require a more thorough contemplation,

The end result betters the poet's unbound strains,
When shackled in chains, louder and clear, the refrains,

When tempted by the temptress of freedom's sweet call,
I slow down, change tempo, say a mantra quite small:

I will fly in the face of convention
All the while swatting at life, though in vain
I will radically stick with tradition
Accepting of other poets' disdain

Maybe for me, rhyme, meter and meaning
Find their places within only my soul
But if that's the sad case, as is seeming
You won't find me giving up on my goal

I fight what you hear with my verse rhyming,
I call to the meter to make it whole,
I imbue meaning in proper timing,
And askew free verse's cunning control,

Here is my Mantra, a rhythmical chant,
Repeated until solid in my core,
Don't beg me to give it up for I shan't,
Rhyme, meter, meaning, the only true score.

 

I'll falter, make mistakes, what I usually do,
But at least I'll keep trying, strive honest and true,

And maybe, some day, in the distant future to come,
The purity of voice will return calling some,

And one by one, few by few, in small groups at first,
The poets will start abandoning their free verse,

And return to the harder but purer of crafts,
The glimmer of faint flickers rekindled in shafts,

And soon the glow of fires, pure white and renewed,
Will find homes in all of us, the hurt and the soothed,

And poetry's main purpose will wholly fulfill,
Once again in our hearts, to inspire and thrill,

Until such a day comes I'll stay true to my task,
Make poems the old fashioned way, that's all I ask.

tags: poetry  

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