Here’s to avant-cryptic stanzas Nihil-angst extravaganzas, Ghazal, Pantoum, endless Haiku… such may cause the Muse to strike you. Dada, Tanka, cinquains, Centos existential verse mementos – yes, they’re mildly amusing forms but finally fail to transcend norms of poetry-induced despair (a common modern-day affair) brought on by formless abstract lines of current verse. The warning signs: eye-rolling, growling, throwing books yelling at websites, ***** looks at writers with advanced degrees, a raging sense of vague unease with life and letters. **** what’s new… one wonders what we’re coming to.
When meaning is replaced by style and editors extol the vile you know that doom is on its way. The poets don’t know what to say but fool around, devoid of rhythm (that’s why no one wants to hear them let alone READ them). What a lark; like rain-soaked matches in the dark. Poetic dullness thus delays to kindle light or spark a blaze. Sad vocation: analyzing wordy scribbles. Agonizing over esoteric twaddle (makes one want to hit the bottle – or the poet). Was it ever this way? Will the next endeavor lift us toward the lyric splendor or return us back to sender…