Tuesday, March 5, 2013

The Evisceration of the Poet

by Jim Rapp

If a tree, falling in a forest inhabited by
modern poets, depended on them to make
its falling known to the world, would its
fall make any sound?

Poets were our first story tellers,
the first historians too,
for all I know, accountants as well.

No one had heard of a bookseller,
stone chiselers were relatively few,
clay tablets served poorly in lieu of an ink well.

So poets of old were expected to say –
audibly – all that needed to be said,
and say it with art so clear

that it lodged for all of one’s days
on a “tablet” easily recalled and “read”
when the poet was no longer near.

But some poets have become harem eunuchs,
with no purpose except to bemuse,
storing sterile sigils in books and on chips.

Alas, these modern poets have found a new shtick;
speaking in tongues, in utterance abstruse,
no meaning escapes through their lips.

Dispossessed of the power to propagate
from father to son and son’s son,
they have forsaken meaning for mystery

neither they nor fellow sophisticates,
though trained in poetic locution,
can unravel as story or history.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Please feel free to leave a comment. Comments are moderated and will appear as soon as possible after posting. Follow these steps:
1. Write your comment
2. Select a profile
(Anonymous or Name works best)
3. Select Preview
4. Sign word verification
5. Select Post Comment