and what, after all,
was so wrong
with simple rhyme
and quaint folk
ballads of love?
have poets often
not been first
burst to spot
shape still forming from ground
dipped diamond-tipped pens
in pools of time
stirring up
currents of insights
that grew, in course
of time to waves?
do we not
compose,
solely for handfuls
of loyal listeners
bubblings up wellsprings,
words
meant merely to delight
and entertain the mind
moving heart to very muscle?
but what have all these labours
by we self-confessed saviours,
the 'unacknowledged legislators
of the world'*
produced?
a laugh or two?
maybe even a few
bucks on the side?
a moment's pride?
lifetimes
brain-busting
heart-bursting
outpourings
measuring,
on balance,
about a penny each?
yet still poets
ply trade
reporting,
as is calling,
pivot points of day-
so what can
such a minute
band of misfits,
forever at odds
with every era
do but
lift up
unheard voices
on behalf of
voiceless humanity?
*Percy Bysshe Shelley: A Defence of Poetry; 1821
2/ february 12,2012
doug bentley
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-canadian-s-poem-1/
