Sunday, November 23, 2014

Whither Flieth Poetry?

(A revival of the archaic)

Composed of truth,
With thoughts so slowly;
Words processed from within,
That tell a story.

Every syllable a number
That counts, you tally!
But people use it not,
They feel sorry!

Modern critics to mordern theories,
Peotry has evolved 
To so much more than holy
Yet clipped still...

Oh wherefore hast thou lost all power?
From the ancient time,
A thing of reverence;
Now a simple antique flower?

Poetry doth flow
With immense pleasure,
Providing humanity with what was lost;
Today poetry is not a pleasure?

New techs, songs and all
To Minimalistic liesures give growth
Fat and unthinking, with cruelty
poetry now, so still, it does not flow.

Is it the thing of the past
With poets so little to write?
Actors so vastly renowned
Wherefore flieth its life?

Did not poetry in short and crisp
Words so complex or rustic 
For its readers
Portray its thoughts so wholly?

What was easy to reach, so far,
Wherefore is immediate poetry?
We that share its sympathy,
Have brushed it aside so coldly.

Moves you stronger than books 
With rhythm and a story!
Tells more in the shortest words
With feelings overflowing!

Then wherefore is poetry today,
Do you not read it seriously?
Would have swept all masses of impurity
Had it been the staple to your rationality.

[The image above was taken by me]