There is something about poetry that makes
for contemporaneity that’s life!
It explains the desuetude of past
masters of the skill, though they might be read
unmatched still, their handicap is being dead.
A poet speaks with the voice of the times;
immortality is a frozen state
that defrosts, but never comes back to life
in terms of today – for that effect find
from the breathing mouth of a living mind.
But no sooner said, and read, than fresh words
begin to droop, ease back into the void
we sentimentally name the past, where
the old masters stir with ghostly ambition
attributed, to keep sustained the mission.
For the time being then, rejoice in the skill
or call it opportunity that makes
for sharing experience, the poetry
that shimmers with life, before long is dead;
a tangent on eternity, all said.
