My Contention - May 9
Planting my flag atop my sonnet’s peak
and outward gazing at the vales below,
I hear the rambling rivers, feel the faux
flow and fumble of their groping technique;
From high on up, I trace the snaky sneak
of weak words—and weaker metaphors,—slow
conclusions, mirroring the so and so…
I am compelled, my judgement thus to speak:
I declare war on free verse poetry!
Ach! scourge on rhyme, blight on rhythm,—I’ll beat
back the long-winded flood of half complete
thoughts. With respect to whom I name my foe,
if here you hear your name,—at least you’ll know:
In the formless form—I find my enemy!
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