Listen Up, You Guys
I think that we've all had enough of this second-rate
poetryshit. Now, listen, you knuckleheads. We've all
got to stop being such dreadful bores, and try to plumb
the word-hoards, that exclusive stash of poetic utterance
from the Anglo-Saxon bards of yore.
Instead of sticking out our tongues at each other,
like 7th graders in detention halls, we should be Frenching
with our mother tongue, like Grendel and his mother,
marauding the mead halls.
Instead of all this moan-and-groan, perpetual whine,
we should endeavor to write firmly formal stanzas,
earthy and pithy, acutely attuned to both natural wonders
and native troubles, without straining after bardic grandiosity
or delphic profundity, in foursquare iambic lines.
Instead of all this belly-aching, "poor little me", we should,
like motherless children, remain haunted by martilineal
grief that can be neither varnished nor vanquished, and
should let a deeper tinge of melancholy creep into our
elegiac soliloquies.
Got it?? 'Nuff said.
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