POETRY AS QUESTION

 

One by one, distorting it,

Post-mod artistes have stripped it till

entropy has exposed the art

as being no more than "so called".

Now, the heart gone out of it,

poetry with mouldering bones,

lies in a late New-Age grave,

hungering, thirsting

for that sense it felt long ago

when it was great – but now

in the throes of  its delirium,

it dreams of its lost art.

 

Gaunt-eyed, near soulless,

it seems to be dying. All day,

all night, out of its mind,

it rattles off sheer nonsense.

Almost at its agonized end,

yet unwilling to succumb,

it shakes its groggy head

and briefly comes to its senses,

 rises and sits, awry, on a log

deep in the woods, wondering:

What am I now? Taking stock,

it murmurs: "Was I ever?"

 

A ghostly spectre appears,

saying: "If you want to be again,

you need a new voice, with soul,

a new sense, with heart,

if you're to be reborn;

and you need a better diet

to put flesh back on your bones."

 

Poetry hung its head,

doubting if there was anyone

soulful enough, caring enough

and human enough, beyond an earthy,

ungodly bent, to raise it

from the realm of the dead.

 

The spectre waved and said:

"Look to the Heavens," and then

slowly vanished in a mist.

                                                                                                                                       – J.E. Bennett