Wednesday, October 30, 2013

    The essence of all poetry is sound,
    Just as it is with music, but in words
    That resonate with sense, sometimes profound,
    Sometimes as blithe as songs of springtime birds.

    The lyric poet, most especially,
    Intoning tuneful words that tell a tale
    Will strum his lyre to accompany
    His song, enough to charm a nightingale.

    But modern verse has somehow lost its verve
    By craving liberty from ancient rules—
    Was that because these Newbies lost their nerve
    To learn their trade and master ancient rules?

         Now, sad to say, eschewing beat and rhyme,
         They’ve lost the ancient Way to the sublime.