I have spent many hours,

reading with awe, to hear deep in my  mind,

the rolling words, the gifts of those who share

their lucid thoughts with us.

I reach out to hold one of these pure lines,

if only for a moment in my heart.

A spark, a jewel, caught in eager hands,

just for an instant, while the ember glows.

 

But now it seems the more obscene the words

or metaphors that poets write today,

the greater the praise, from those poor clowns,

who sadly believe the ravings of those

who fling words, like paint, against a canvas,

knowing fools will advocate them.

Write what cannot be read or understood.

Someone will laud you as a genius.

Such is the vanity of vacant minds.

The ringing of bells that have no clappers.

 

But what of those poor souls, who reading, seek

to visit in a mind. See what was seen, share pain,

feel the love and anguish suffered there.

How can we understand that which is praised,

only because it seeks to shock or is obscure?

We weep, poor searching folk, who only try

to solve a chaos of discordant words.

And I can hear the roar of falling tears.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, January, 1995