Poems For Poets Vi

Poems for Poets VI Caveat by Michael R. Burch If only we were not so eloquent, we might sing, and only sing, not to impress, but only to enjoy, to be enjoyed. We might inundate the earth with thankfulness for light, although it dies, and make a song of night descending on the earth like bliss, with other lights beyond—not to be known— but only to be welcomed and enjoyed, before all worlds and stars are overthrown ... as a lover’s hands embrace a sleeping face and find it beautiful for emptiness of all but joy. There is no thought to love but love itself. How senseless to redress, in darkness, such becoming nakedness . . . Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather blown, brittle and brown, as fierce northern gales sever. Come down, or your heart will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. Rant: The Elite by Michael R. Burch When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say: "Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ..." I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart, isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better, and certainly fairer and taller, than they are? Though once I found Ezra Pound perhaps a smidgen too profound, perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito and the advantages of fascism to be taken ad finem, like high tea with a pure white spot of intellectualism and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free. I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ... but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true, echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you. Of course, politics has nothing to do with art, but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite, with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to fart so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet. "You had to be there! We were falling apart with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!" Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air, gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair. Keywords/Tags: Harold Bloom, literary critic, literary criticism, elitist, ivory tower, professor, poet, poets, poetry