Poetry is a giant planet
slowly rotating on its axis
gradually bringing once more its continents
into the formalist light of the sun.
The frigidly self-serving blight of myopia
sublimates off from the minds of the poets
and warmed by the sunlight’s beneficent splendor
they soon rediscover the pleasures of meter.
They put down their Whitman and reach for their Milton
and revel in the joy of scansion again.
They read measured lyrics aloud to each other
and find they can now grasp the Permanent Things.
And thus in the whole length and breadth of their continent
Poets are reaping the depth of their heritage;
Poets are honing the wealth of their treasures
and poets are once again blessing their world.
2024
This is a great honor, William. I am truly thankful.
I'm not much of a triumphalist, but between the imagery and the expanding meter, I do hear some of Gustav Holst's "The Planets" nonetheless.