A thankless task. You churn them singly out.
TheyÔÇÖre ordered chronologicÔÇÖly. And when
someone asks idly what theyÔÇÖre all about,
you canÔÇÖt avow a single theme. But then
you add as afterthought, ÔÇ£I like being archÔÇØÔÇö
youÔÇÖd think wit travels on iambic wheels.
Alas, the modern earnestness has parched
the taste: writingÔÇÖs now therapy, and feels
like masquerade; the pose as basket case.
TheyÔÇÖve cast down Ariel, and Caliban
shat out some chopped up prose with wit effaced,
devoid of rhyme, and no attempt to scan.
He means it, though. You mustnÔÇÖt rush to judge
his putrid poetasting playschool fudge.
From: Sonnets, Mostly Bristolian
Published in: The Society of Classical Poets