Posted by: Ron DuBour | May 16, 2018

“Homeland”~by Michael Graves


 

 

“Homeland”

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I live in a land that lies between
Ars Poetica and Daylight.
Near Poesia the sea of dreams
shining softly in the moonlight.

‘cross the Isthmus of Illusion, down
the River of Riotous Times.
You’ll find me there, beneath a tree
happily batting out rhymes.

Beyond the Plains of Perilous Plight
and the Hills of Recombinant Verse.
It’s a land where poetry lingers like clouds
in a sky you’d just love to traverse.

In a huge balloon made of phrases and verbs
tied together with lines of conjunction.
Buoyed by verses so light and so clear
so delightful they near’ restrict function.

On the other hand, there’s another land
to the east, where the verse is so sodden
that poets (who normally are creatures of light) are
quite proud of being downtrodden.

In Pedantia, poetry’s a serious thing
made with scary rules and compunction.
With so many levels of interpretation
you can barely retain mental function.

With references so arcane and obscure
that it’s easy to question validity.
Except when you note that the poet who wrote them
died drowning in excess perfidy.

Clarity in poetry’s a dangerous thing
that terrifies scholars and hokes
who, failing to see to the bottom of things
bind their words up in mirrors and smoke.

The effortless flow of simplicity, just
evades their awareness, I guess.
And all they intend, at the end of it all
is to wow and confuse and impress.

But the poetry of truth can be simple and clear
without so much as a riddle.
Its premise is such that it needs no device
no artifice nor tremulous fiddl(ing).

A poetic statement, clear and concise
understood by any who read it
is vastly superior to one made with lines
so confusing they act to defeat it.

A piece thickly bound in pedantics
based on overworked pontification
makes a far better sermon, than poetic verse
as it’s rooted in obfuscation.

My homeland though, is in a place
where poetry’s thankfully brimming
with lightness and grace, laid out at a pace
that doesn’t set your head spinning.

I come from a land that lies between
Ars Poetica and Daylight.
Near Poesia, the sea of dreams
shining softly in the moonlight.

‘cross the Isthmus of Illusion, down
the River of Riotous Times.
You’ll find me here at the end of my days
happily batting out rhymes.

–Graves 9/22/12


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