Submitted by Nadd Wellgreen
What happened to the poet’s love of form?
What manner plague hath rendered meter beat?
Since when is whither-take-the-lines the norm
And solid verse-craft frowned on as effete?
Did Whitman do our tongue as good a turn
With random run-on lines and, oh–why rhyme?–
As Raleigh did the lungs with leafy burn
Picked up on hunt for gold in swampy clime?
The artist plays their paints within a frame;
The architect must balance force with force;
Without a human model, clothes look lame–
Does language-song require a different course?
Oh fellow weavers of the written word,
Let rhythm reign again–let song be heard.
Poet's Corner 