I Cannot Ever Bothered Be by Dennis Allen Lange

—

When moderns say that rhythm’s passed,
…And rhyming verse is trite,
What would the great Longfellow say
…About that arrow’s flight?

Such talk is like an acid rain
…That falls on Dickinson,
And kills her bees and Kilmer’s trees;
…Coats Kipling’s dawning sun.

That dart is thrown at Shakespeare, too
…And all the masters past
By men who pose as poets when
…It’s prose their work is classed.

And so I’ll stand as close I can
…To Byron, Coleridge, Keats
I’ll hold their hats or open doors
…Or drive them through the streets.

And I’ll not care when prose lines up
…In stanzas in pretense,
Or critics cough or prosers scorn
…And publishers fold tents.

I cannot ever bothered be
…When men my verse oppose.
They praise the naked emperor,
…And criticize my clothes.

————————————————–

photo by Jay Simmons at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nrcQGOi/landscape

————————————————–

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

Advertisement

Read Full Post »

The Demiurge’s Laugh by Robert Frost

It was far in the sameness of the wood;
…I was running with joy on the Demon’s trail,
Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
…It was just as the light was beginning to fail
That I suddenly heard – all I needed to hear:
It has lasted me many and many a year.

The sound was behind me instead of before,
…A sleepy sound, but mocking half,
As of one who utterly couldn’t care.
…The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,
Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;
And well I knew what the Demon meant.

I shall not forget how his laugh rang out.
…I felt as a fool to have been so caught,
And checked my steps to make pretense
…It was something among the leaves I sought
(Though doubtful whether he stayed to see).
Thereafter I sat me against a tree.

Read Full Post »