Free Verse
Free Verse
They watch, with longing as the others walk by, wearing what garments they choose, bearing what meaning they desire, portraying openly what vulgarity or obscenity they wish, the free verse, in no particular order, whispering, taunting those within..
"you who are encircled, whose souls are made to bend to the will of the rhythm of your masters, you are not worthy of the tittle you so ignorantly flaunt, true poetry should proclaim itself"
those locked in their cages, keepers of word smiths and brothers of sages, readied there report, and replied in retort:
"how dare you claim, to belittle our name, we gave you your freedom, we gave you your fame, we were before, and we shall be after, you are but a side note, a single chapter, in this book that long ago was written, what holy verses like tides have you ridden? were you there with pope? did you inspire Milton? did you pick up Donne and from nothing build him? you are prophets of those with no kingdom to rule, empty tombs that pour from the mouths of fools.”
undeterred in pride, in turn and kind. free verse replied:
"Greedily you hold onto a past that is empty, there is nothing there save relics and meaningless ritual, you choose not to see, anyone can play games like thee, but he who masters himself, and speaks for no one else, for him it is not who came first or came after, but whose arrival had meaning and poise, and grandeur.”
On the march of the free went, and those locked in their cages watched, with spite and envy,
for the verse bound in chains of rhythm meter and rhyme, longed to sing with freedom and chime, and to be again among the new and reborn, not the old and forgotten and ever sworn, to be silent and obey, to sit be still and stay,
and the free verse longs to be among the enslaved, those in a home who are by history encased. Engraved, forever etched in our minds, growing dearer with age and ever refined, and the two watch each other, and long to trade lives, like the scripted song admires the flight of the jazz solo, soaring to higher places, as the solo longs to be remembered, eternally, on those very pages.
They watch, with longing as the others walk by, wearing what garments they choose, bearing what meaning they desire, portraying openly what vulgarity or obscenity they wish, the free verse, in no particular order, whispering, taunting those within..
"you who are encircled, whose souls are made to bend to the will of the rhythm of your masters, you are not worthy of the tittle you so ignorantly flaunt, true poetry should proclaim itself"
those locked in their cages, keepers of word smiths and brothers of sages, readied there report, and replied in retort:
"how dare you claim, to belittle our name, we gave you your freedom, we gave you your fame, we were before, and we shall be after, you are but a side note, a single chapter, in this book that long ago was written, what holy verses like tides have you ridden? were you there with pope? did you inspire Milton? did you pick up Donne and from nothing build him? you are prophets of those with no kingdom to rule, empty tombs that pour from the mouths of fools.”
undeterred in pride, in turn and kind. free verse replied:
"Greedily you hold onto a past that is empty, there is nothing there save relics and meaningless ritual, you choose not to see, anyone can play games like thee, but he who masters himself, and speaks for no one else, for him it is not who came first or came after, but whose arrival had meaning and poise, and grandeur.”
On the march of the free went, and those locked in their cages watched, with spite and envy,
for the verse bound in chains of rhythm meter and rhyme, longed to sing with freedom and chime, and to be again among the new and reborn, not the old and forgotten and ever sworn, to be silent and obey, to sit be still and stay,
and the free verse longs to be among the enslaved, those in a home who are by history encased. Engraved, forever etched in our minds, growing dearer with age and ever refined, and the two watch each other, and long to trade lives, like the scripted song admires the flight of the jazz solo, soaring to higher places, as the solo longs to be remembered, eternally, on those very pages.
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