For the richer poet and the poorer critic - a riposte

- for Stephanie Esther

The good poet wrote a poem, a song of themselves, in a cage
of metaphysical iron and made a linguistic turn that would
make Cyril Connolly blush in a postured niche

like the seed taken to root, a flower failed stepped on, giving off
the scent mistaken for the Byronic hoof,
they yelled "but hey, what would I know?"

and the question sits as a narcissus
echo-ward,
Tanaraic were the words and
the well-rigourous good poet,
holding a Frankfurt for pen,
angered for kranski, stooped to conquer,
the song of themselves,
the quiddity of correctness germane.

Cutting the wings of solitude's flight in the correntness' Zen.

Germinal to the good poet's posture was emotion, the negative capability of
dead horses whipped, the cri de couer of the song of themselves,
given as panorama of what-would-they-know-? it interests me not
as if the value or river banks the good poet poor critic
held at the behest Appolonian purity besmirched, you are a turd.

and the questions sits as a narcissus echo-ward,
Tanaraic were the words,
know the clerestory, that we unknow, untouched
and unmoved clean from the very expansive critic's loft-posed,
waxen-cuffed and teary-lappelled what-would-they-knows-?

's-Take salvames for the neologisms, the tidy town grammarianism,
the regional realism, as small ponds and flowers failed lovingly
tended are best cut to oriental proportions,

we know best, said the tradition, what canon concrete
or language itself,
or surreal non narrative, typographic and dadaist.

the writerly angle that I defile, as I poet, slip into first person juvenile
taken to an emo cage wrestle with God, I poet,
who must fail as demiurge in a derivative
and facile narrative as old as gnosis and German Idealism,
though the incantatory the good poet claims,
as critic, strafe for aim.

never make poems too loud is the dictum of the old,
glamorous and drugged potlatch to the cult of the I
the too-sharp axioms of the green hashish shoots young.

to which the flower failed stepped upon took the scent
of a sacrosanct two-cent hobnail boot
in a confusion of
critique that wishes as pierces to the root.

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I like the first few words "The good poet wrote a poem"

David. L

the rest is a personal invective...thank you David...
I like the apostrophe in the first word of your poem "Lamb's" very much. quid pro quo fair poet.

As a teacher I will give you 5 out of ten. My report card comments of this "rant" are: "Making good progress" although I'm damned if I know what it is progresses to. "Show's promise" although I dare not guess what promise it will keep. And finally: "Could try harder". Ultimately this is a failed attempt at being witty by using unrelated words. If there is no meaning then there is no point. It fails because either there is no meaning or the meaning is drowned in the metaphor. What exactly does "glamorous and drugged potlatch to the cult of the I the too-sharp axioms of the green hashish shoots young" mean and why should I care? My shame is that I inspired this drizzle.

Thank you Stephanie, something a little more reasoned but I do wonder what yardstick of poetry criticism you use?? hahaha

PS God Pty Ltd - Pity is limited but I wondered that there was scant or no reference to the business-making of corporate ministries in your poem, making the title somewhat of a misnomer :)
no need to care as well, no need to negate either apropos Member Poetry guidelines, dude.
as well, the ambiguity or denseness of "meaning" falls well within the parameters of Russian Formalism - the "ostranenie" of poetry, as well as the mead of poetry berserker rage, to evoke the Viking genre. Fair Poet, Stephanie, but as for reader...maybe lessons in linguistic and semiotics so as to plunge the unknowings as good St Erkenwald boded as our limits, dude.

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