To Poets, To Make Much Of Rhyme After Robert Herrick To The Virgins, To Make Much Of Time Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

To Poets, To Make Much Of Rhyme After Robert Herrick To The Virgins, To Make Much Of Time



Gather rich rhyme schemes while you may,
poor verse sounds trite, found trying,
bare bones which weigh hot air today,
fuss fast forgot, dust flying.

Keep open mind, reap muse enshrined
in harmony delightful,
voice words refined, choice tale unwind,
flee far from falsehoods frightful.

Who seeks escape from nightshade drape
of worldly woes surrounding,
for Good Hope Cape should verses shape
bright images abounding.

Who prose would name as verse to shame
puts poetry well written,
‘I came, became, on fate poured blame’
prosaic sounds, though smitten.

Watch well words’ worth as sadness, mirth,
steer different directions,
chalk, cheese, from birth to final berth
deserving diverse sections.

True verse is craft whose sunbeam shaft,
uncanny angle finding,
appears witchcraft, its beauty’s haft
trite terran cares unwinding.

Where there’s a clash ‘twixt muse and cash,
cacophany unmuzzled
at best is brash, discordant crash:
prose poetry? we’re puzzled
although ‘tis true constrictive view
some take of form, tradition,
seek freedoms new, provoke, askew
much feels, lacks erudition.

Unscanned prose blanks are verse? No thanks!
taste ‘modern’ schools forgetting
turn sink word banks not ballast tanks,
speak pique, bleak blanket setting.

Who would adorn wild weed as corn
phrase poorly planned, prosaic,
weaves white leaves torn, from honour shorn,
miss musical mosaic.

Most writing prose metamorphose
from magic mariposa
to worm verse rose may blight, soft glows
from firefly douse sub rosa.

Mistrust beliefs fixed fast, fig-leaf
for bigots narrow-minded
worms far beneath contempt to grief
soon come unwept, self-blinded.

Soar far beyond past poets' bond
ignore crass trendy jargon
on which Time's wand, wind waves, scarce fond,
who now remembers Sargon?

Avoid rants vain in ‘free’ complain,
where cliché beckons ever
for down fame’s drain lame poured they’re pain,
rap knuckles, rarely clever.

Rhymed lines are best with wit and zest
spontaneous combining,
close prose shop, blessed though critics pest,
spit[e] puny money whining.

None need be coy, fun run enjoy
at humor aim, shun fame,
tweak, twinkle, chime, join sense to rhyme,
Time sickles fickle flame.e

POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
(11 May 2007 revised 19 and 31 August 2009)
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