Critique The Critic
Can poems be coined merely for play
in similar manner as in olden day
or must they be butchered; dissected away
by awful autopsy after poet's decay?
"What happened to us? We demand recourse!"
Should critical dissection be the only force
that drives us poets to lay our course
in some cryptic prescription even rivaling Morse?
"We now say, no!" There are no such things
as puppet-like poems fitting critics' strings.
"Qashab!" All rhymes are rich by autonomous means
and all verse is perfect when the Poet sings.
We sing of spirits and dancing fairies,
of wine and women and moment that varies
'tween whim and madness that surely carries
with it some weight for worthy tally.
How dare you declare our words were wasted,
proclaiming our pieces as merely pasted,
when effort was such that we poets tasted
meaningful measures; preserved and unwasted.
Humble us now, oh Critical One.
Have you countered all prose we poets have done?
Comparing ourselves, you should certainly shun
in light of the Poet, the Counter-Critical One.
How must we give birth, oh Demanding One,
that our free-form fancy be your dutiful son?
Is there such a rule that you are the one
to raise our children? Your precision done?
We implore you, Critic; critique this piece
and wave your wand that it rest in peace.
"Abreq ad habra!" Cast it down as stain and crease,
as a leaf of languishing language released.
When condemning this leaf, you do solemnly swear
by the blood of all poets, us everywhere,
that All verse is worthless; All is despair
no matter the meter or genius we share.
Since this is the poem where we poets do speak:
"We are neither your slaves, nor humble, nor meek,
but are lords of these worlds you pathetically seek.
And your chains are but ours to break and critique."
Written By:~G. E. Graven~
*Note: You may use this poem to sendor for your webpage, please giveproper credit, thank you!
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