Where is the place for poetry
in a polyvinyl world,
where gloss is gain
and form substitutes for substance?
When vision is quick-cut
and sound received in bites,
when media philosophy cries
"I surf, therefore I am"
where is the place for poetry?
Sweet deep emotion suspends
like ripe summer fruit
on word-twisted vines
waiting to be plucked and savored
to nourish our souls.
But where is the place for poetry
in a fast-food world?
Music, once the poet's medium,
is sold now to the highest bidder,
no meaning sought.
Only shallow jangling posing
unanswers to non-questions
will be bought.
So poets rave of horrors
to a death-defying beat.
They strip the masks from familiar fears
while guitars shriek their anguish.
They rage against the thieving of their voice
in crystal verse that crashes around our heads
until we cry: no more! no more!
There is no place for poetry!
And when we hear our cry, we weep
mourning the loss of our hearts:
bought, sold, devalued and abandoned.
There is no place for poetry
in life without a soul.
In a world artificially lighted
no stars can grace the nighttime skies,
and thoughts which would move our
minds and hearts to unimagined heights
are blotted out, unable to shine
through the headlong glare.
Where is the place for poetry?
Is anyone still looking?
On stopping by the woods on a snowy evening,
most of us would take the freeway.