A Temporary Fuck Up

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

A novelist called Oates despises those

Who rhyme their poetry.  The High Brows now

Pretend that people, Jills and Joes,

Who love a poem that derives some pow

From rhyming are beneath contempt, and rhymes

From poets even lower.  Never mind

The evils of the Modernists, their crimes

Against true poetry.  They’ve left her blind

To normal people’s tastes so she prefers

The dribbles on the unrhymed pages of

Atlantic and New Yorker.  Hearts like hers

Are stone to what the Leicester Square folks love. . .

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  They know what’s great, still great despite this bitch.

     They know that Modernism is a glitch.

~ Phillip Whidden