J. V., Won't Someone Tell Me?, 2

Perhaps this is the kind of question too profound for me,

but I sure wish that I could ask you about this, J. V.
Why do some people put sloppy verse in their poetry---

bad grammar, archaic constructions (eighteenth century),

even inaccurate control of a vocabulary,

and yet expect readers to rise and shout, EXTRAORDINARY.

Do they believe that poems should have strive for real quality

of verbal style, or to they think this taints poems' honesty?

Even their lines are sloggish with drifting attenation

like jellyfishes' stingers, or a millpond in stagnation.

And God have mercy on you if you question punctuation.

Apparently our time rewards poems that sound like bad prose;

I guess even in poetry, they think . . . ANYTHING GOES.

Here is a thought, and I apologize if its form shocks

the no-cost (not free) versists:  when Shakespeare wrote his scenes,
he brought honed skills to his adroitly polished prosody.

To BlueLevels, I offer this poem, in a dedication

(no matter who objects---pruned prudes---in loud vociferation,

or shrieks that we have violated some strict inhibition).

Words for him cross time as nocturnal e- (or, well) transmission;

and come to him to tell emotions written with precision.

I ask you to invite him into your imagination---

as he reads, shoeless, shirtless, clad in faded, skyblue jeans,

and his new pair of soft and fragrant, pastel purple socks.







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