Thursday, March 27, 2014

All the good poets are dead

O Solitude,
thou selfsame cure for
thy sister Lonelynesse.
Thou scaffold for crows;
thou sweet sacrifice of the soul.

I sent my SOS to the world
a quarter century ago.
But ‘tis too late, I am
drowned in solitude.

Be not deceived by what you’ve read.
All the good poets are long-since dead.

What final word be ventured?
What idle mind the next give birth?
Always it’s back to silence,
surrendering all violence;
drawing back, drawing near,
the Land without fear –
but two angels bar the way,
their fiery swords hold sway.

[This poem copyright © 2014 by Reality Wedge!]


  1. O distraction,
    thou minx and prick
    unto the principles
    while such silence
    keeps hold.

    Be not aggreieved,
    all bad poets are now conceived.

    What if I cannot
    and none other can?
    Will the work of poets
    become all sham?
    Surely not! I protest.
    Doth do shall hark
    fie thy thee lest.


  2. O Reader, if thou Ingle's poem comprehend;
    my hat to thee I doff and a while suspend.