An Impermissible And Impossible Thing
Were it not a thing impermissible,
I'd take handfuls of all these silly bits of
Simulacra, and detritus, dross and debris:
The minutiae and impedimenta that are all these
Constricting, confining rules and bylaws, codes and regulations:
And toss them aerially, and burn them with flaming arrows.
For mine is an unfortunately anarchic style of poetry,
And undisciplined, wayward and incorrigible;
Yet free and full of the most veritable sort of life.
It moves here, it reposes and takes its leisurely ease there.
'Tis like unto the wind: variable and unknowable:
Incapable of the charting of windy cartography,
Unable to be predicted or supposed.
Unknown and unknowable, that is what my ilk of poetic oeuvre is like,
It is a free soul, yet ancient, imbued with the great power of the immortals of
Most current and archaic poetry....suffused with the life eternal surfeit in the
Breath and breadth of the words of the poets of the times past.
It locomotes and translocates to that where it will,
And I have no hold over the little anarchist, yet lovable.
Such is my poetry, and it and I will not brook the slightest imposition of the
Lightest controlling word or binding law on us.
We do as we wish, as we must.
I do not call all people to a freeness far too free, but only do I cry out
For the manumission of their works: Of their poetry.
My poems are often without the burthen of the rhymed,
Which I, except in sparing amounts, abhor.
All rhyme schemes are a thing detestable to me,
As to all truly apt and adept poets.
There is no profit in the silliness of utterly contemptible rhyme.
Rhyme is the province and realm, the bailiwick of children, of
It is for writers simple of mind, and readers idiotic and apish.
Powerful poems do not encumber themselves with the dread onus of rhyme.
Neither do solemn, serious poems.
For a poem to be real, it must, to indulge momentarily in the hated thing,
Think and feel.
Only those poems that are free and free of rhyme are worthwhile.
All else be a tale told by idiots, full of resonance and furiousness, and in signification, naught.
Copyright © Douglas Cate | Year Posted 2017
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.