The
Death of Poetry
Oh
yes poetry is dying
and
you will say to me
that
new poets are arising
from
many directions
Rappers
and song writers
children
writing in schools
and
the always lonely and lovesick
teenagers
who ache for love
old
men and women
who
have seen too much
and
know things that will
be
forgotten or must be written
Again
the age conspires
to
turn itself gray
a
dead body unwashed
and
prepared for final burial
Yes
there are many who oppose
this
change of colors to one
Poetry
is violent
a
product of injustice
a
creation for those
with
starved thought
Poetry
is an empty mouth
a
cell with bars opened wide
that
chews the tough to soft
The
swallow becomes
an
upset stomach
that
vomits a need for change
Once
poetry charged the soul
to
give generations
a
reason to live and create
Now
the unseen fills
batteries
in phones
with
clues to neutral colors
no
one can unravel
For
the reader poetry may live
but
think of all the poets
who
will never be read again
the
ones who write in desperation
burying
their scribbles
in
the electronic graveyards
forgotten
in unmarked
digital
graves
Oh
yes poetry is dying
as
it always has
day
by day
hour
by hour
resurrected
only by the needy
who
discover shadows
in
the corners of their lives
where
the flash of words
may
bring the moment
into
focus like a famous photo
Keep
searching
through
the unfinished headstones
for
poetry that has died
Some
is being buried today
Mourn with others at the open hole
that is deeper by the second
Mourn with others at the open hole
that is deeper by the second
Barry
G. Wick
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