There Seems to Be No Time

One of the opinions I have found some times in the poetic community is a dogmatic belief that narrative unrhymed verse is the only type of poetry that can be considered poetry today. It's almost as if these poets would like to obliterate our poetic past, or at least make like it never existed. I have been teaching for quite a while and I get it, poetry changes, as do a lot of things in life. However, when some act as if they were the poetry police, then I find myself feeling like I am a character in 1984. Like with any other art form, there are good examples of it and bad examples. When technique trumps inspiration, the result is always bad. As a poet, I believe that each poem, regardless of its form, should be viewed with an open mind, judged for its merit, not its conformity to current doctrine. Poetry is a beautiful art form. And, as the title of this blog affirms, words used well are a worthy object of love.

I therefore offer this verse of my own tonight, for criticism as well as for fun.

There Seems to Be No Time for Rhyme Anymore
Christopher Bogart

What is it about
A rhymed poem
That makes some poets crazy?

“Greeting cards!” they exclaim
When reading metered verse.
“Might as well write for Norcross!
Or Hallmark!”

“Well that displays a narrowness
Of mind,” I respond
In perfect iambic pentameter,
And not a little bit of wit.

“I like my verse ‘au natural’!
‘Al fresco’!”
They barely shout
Before stark images invade my mind
In places
That will be hard to clean out.

And who is this Al anyway?

Maybe if I hum or sing a song…

Don’t get me wrong.
I like to let it
All hang out
As much as the next guy,
But
I detect a hint
Of blatant Orthodoxy
In their poetic philosophy
…and maybe
The possibility
Of burning flesh.

After all,
What’s wrong with rhyme?
A little alliteration
Makes poetic juices flow.
Assonance.
Consonance.
It all makes sense
In the defense
Of a love
Of words.

Shakespeare used rhyme religiously.
So did Milton,
Tennyson,
Byron
And, after all is said and Donne,
So did Coleridge,
Keats and Shelley.
They weren’t treated
As if they were smelly.
Everyone read them,
Chapter and verse.
No one cursed their endeavors
No matter how clever
Their poetry happened to run.

Some of my poet friends would shout at me,
“Stop it!
There’s no market
For sonnets,
Or meter,
Or rhyme.”

To silence the banter,
Maybe I should just answer,
“Give it time.
Give it time.”