Hints of Lowell
echoes of Auden
from Plath a touch
of the neo-maudlin –
on the embers of poets
who flamed in years past
I walk with scorched feet.
Deeply have I delved
into this lustrous genre,
marrying sound and sense
without artistic preference,
taking the first corner rather
than pursue a muted sunset
down a long prairie corridor.
A delicate facility develops,
a trust in what is taking place,
a pleasing shape on the page
evidence of genuine inspiration,
confidence (if still culture bound)
in a process greater than oneself,
shy amazement as words mound
up, gaining strength, breaching
even the stanza’s prim virginity
complex, a miracle that cannot
be shared with youtube youth,
making me perforce a popinjay
sporting with an exotic tongue
while babylon enforces silence.