POEM: The Death of Poetry

A critic posed
A question
Is dead?
But for the piles of dead poets
Worth only one read assent
A qualm comes
Over me
As summons
Unwanted clarity
Between write and throng
Stern and bow
A demanding curt see
In deifying gravity
Those eternal
Only to pass a weigh
Into yawning darkness
And for what must be left
To others
Making light
Of unfathomable depths
Know less than a
Uplifting that which cannot be lifted
To be more
Than a fly by knight
Scrounging heir to inspire
Till the finality of our daze
Whatever
You call the question
Too the cynic
The answer begged is “yes”
To the forged quest in
At best a loan victory
To the
There is know
Question
And undying rejoin

This poem was inspired by an article, from no less than the New York Times, entitled, “Is Poetry Dead?” that was sent to me by my Dad. Fortunately, the subtitle was “Not if 45 Official Laureates Are Any Indication.” Nonetheless, that even posing such a question can inspire is answer enough to such a question.

When the eternal wrought from the foundations of can no longer summon the slightest from which any human dare speak, then may be declared dead. The certificate will be signed by absolute prose. Such last writes will have no need of a wake, and nothing human need be bared. THE END.

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