To my left a girl
spoke daftly of Charlotte Bronte,
to my right a boy
butchered cantos out of Dante.
I've offered these kids
pieces written to pass the time;
short, plotless fictions
and epigrams that rhyme.
"Where's your sense of plot?",
cried a free-verse poet in black.
"Form can be a cage",
advised a boy whose eyes screamed Hack!
"My poems occur
cerebrally, " I explained;
"when reading my shorts
think opposites being strained."
They seemed unable
to deal in abstract thought. It was
incredibly sad.
This is what modernity does.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 1:14 PM UTC
To my left a girl
spoke daftly of Charlotte Bronte,
to my right a boy
butchered cantos out of Dante.
I've offered these kids
pieces written to pass the time;
short, plotless fictions
and epigrams that rhyme.
"Where's your sense of plot?",
cried a free-verse poet in black.
"Form can be a cage",
advised a boy whose eyes screamed Hack!
"My poems occur
cerebrally, " I explained;
"when reading my shorts
think opposites being strained."
They seemed unable
to deal in abstract thought. It was
incredibly sad.
This is what modernity does.
Request permission to use this poem