Sunday, April 29, 2012


     A poet is a maker who has made
     An artifact of words that have obeyed
     Strict rules and regimens the craft defines,
     With which the poet’s willing soul aligns—

     Or so it used to be from ancient days
     Until of late a strange, aberrant craze
     Infected would-be Modern poets’ brains
     Whose loose and craftless practice now disdains
     To take those pains demanded by the art
     Of classic times—from which they stand apart.

     The only way that free verse isn’t free
     From all the rules of antique artistry
     Is that before the margin each line turns;
     The rest of what takes mastery it spurns.