But what, what? do we make of liberty?
That freedom found from lines of various length
And accidents of rhymes, that though our strength
Would rather fail, we scarce admit sincerity
While wishing for… what? Did Whitmanian alacrity
Serve us in the end? Did taste for slant
Replace those even cadences of cant?
Is this the end of Imagist democracy?
I cannot speak for poets past who wrote
With blazing precision, nor for those who started
Rules (those indecent things) we love to quote,
And wonder at how revolutions departed
From their purpose, as now we just enjoy
Those coldly curious curses they employ.
I’d studied Poesy since a Childe ’til Proude
Of how my woven words would be so struck;
But these Postmodern days we now says WTF
In pain again we feel e’en tho’ we LOL.
AFAIC this is all rot
Defending Language now is surely timely
We gather all our strength and wear a :)
And hurling on Teh Internets we launch a language bot!!!
But is not change the nature of our :P !?!?
In days long gone the ‘gram wud nd n STOPs
ASAP getting to whom it ought to.
So tho’ this WWW is for the young
There is no point to calling Language Cops
For what we say might be as well rewrote 2.
Methinks line 8 s mch 2 vry vry long
It mars this otherwise so very excellent song
(Meh, ’twas meant to be, so sue me or b gone)
[pronumciation guide for those who do not acronym]
WTF — What The Fuck
LOL — Laugh Out Loud
AFAIC — As Far As I’m Concerned
:) — smiley
:P — tongue
ASAP — As Soon As Possible (this predates Teh Internets)
WWW — World Wide Web
So tell me brightly, once again, oh Bird
Why we have no Joy? A third of Life
Was buried by some self-deluded strife
And left imprisoned by an impish word.
All numb and softly supple, now so cold
No whispers emanate that pass those bars
Which steal a path that ought to have known stars
That should have shown before our growing old.
So let me hear your voice again, my friend
Whose equal sorry way, of turns I know
Whose song–your song–which I would grow
To match what Is; so let us therefore bend
New paths surrendered to our will and get
Ourselves beyond what past we each regret.
Sit there; let me whisper in your ear,
Go lean your elbow on your knee, to beg
The burden of a donation–I should care,
Should I not? That the hungry go unfed?
Back when the storm had swept the city dead,
And miraculous colors washed and bled to grays.
Where was I? Not here–surely in my bed
Warmly clothed and at some other place
Than this–so where to hide now, oh beggar?
May I sit by you in fallen grace?
Calmly claim your status, let me gather
What pride is left; to see in wrinkled brow
A calm eloquence whose visage I now rather
Envy–a place now far superior to my own.
Don’t shame that heart! For one you’ve seen to throw
Away from you his steel and naked bone
Whose mutterings heard in tones of sudden blue
Entrapments blowing from unsightly throne.
He waits unloved now inconstantly
Casting now in bronze then shaped stone
There sitting long and so irreverently
Swearing by his lonely substance torn.
Now grind it! Grind it now to awfully rough
Those layers there of shame and lying blame!
Grind away then sweep to hide the stuff
Grind it now, grind to dust his game
Don’t shame that precious heart into the mire
Don’t tame, don’t ever let it tame your fire.