Sine arte
A satire against modernity in the arts

O modern beast our captive arts release,
The laws of Nature wished your reign to cease.
What beauties does this modern art restores
By turning vestals young to Russian ******.
How strange the painter draws his new reforms 5
Reducing Nature’s shapes to foggy forms.
All, I may add, by rambling thoughts conceived
If Nature’s order’s razed the goal’s achieved.
‘‘What then?’’ A tasteless judge if dared to ask,
To which the answer wears pretentious mask: 10
‘‘Dear Sir! ’Tis art, all ***** mere symbols made,
And *****, though crude, denotes the father’s shade’’
Go Man admire the fruits of twisted state,
Interpret ***** as something deeply great.
Let ***** Cupid stab his precious heart 15
To make our poesy more interesting art.
Let Cyrus wreck the might of Shakespeare’s throne,
And use her tongue to lick his hallowed stone.
Thus, give the verses blank to frenzied beasts,
Or let Rihanna burn Miltonic seats. 20
A simple critic might her craft enjoy,
But witty minds oft do their gift employ.
New Cornus comes with broken tools to teach
Yet none can bear to hear postmoderns preach.
They mumble days upon the wage and race 25
For them the world’s a strife, that is the case.

One thinks  on Calvin heav’n’s own spirit fell;
Another deems him instrument of hell;
If Calvin feel heav’n’s blessing, or its rod,
This cries there is, and that, there is no God.

Alexander Pope

A transcendental tulip
is blooming in my garden.
Before the petals wither,
before affections harden,
I pray it may diffuse its scent –
so gloriously redolent.

Encouraging the faithful,
it blooms in any weather.
In sunshine or in shadow;
let us, elect, together,
enjoy its sanctifying smell
While warning careless souls of hell.

In Him we stroke the petal
That proves our own depravity
The flower that declares our heart
apart from Christ, a cavity
where only evil may be found
by One who dares our depths to sound.

The second petal beckons
and sings of pure election;
where souls are freely chosen
by God’s divine selection.
(As yet not offered to the masses –
Unto whom His wrath now passes).

Thirdly shines the Limit
of Christ in His atonement:
benefits are thus withheld
in God’s eternal moment.
So let the worldling rant and bluster;
Raging will not dim the luster…

Fourth: shall the fallen Adam
hold out against omniscience?
Will puny human being
Prevail in disobedience?
The Lord on high will hound you down –
His grace to place a golden crown.

Point five unfurls its essence;
as saints arise, and striving
shake off the dust and onward march –
though never quite arriving;
while God empowers to go the distance
Persevering with insistence.

Behold in full the blossom!
In Grace it shines, reflecting;
delighting in God’s wisdom,
the lead to gold perfecting;
Magnanimous floral alchemy
bestowing at last true liberty.

It is an ancient Poet
and he stoppeth me.
“Beware of poetry, my son,
She’s a gold digger.
She’ll chew you up and spit you out,
leave you penniless and lying in a gutter,
drunk on absinthe,
while the rich novelists and scriptwriters
step over you, laughing.”

“Hold off! unhand me, greybeard loon!”
Unheeding, I slunk off to my garret
to compose a villanelle,
heavily derivative of Dylan Thomas.
  
I only wanted to get girls,
but before I knew it
I was roaming with the Romantics,
bopping with the Beats
and cruising with the Classicists.
Popping some Pope, shooting some Stevie Smith
or hitting up Heaney,
I was hopelessly addicted.
And I never did get the girl.