The Poem Ne Plus Ultra

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

We want a poem that obliterates

The poet — and all poetry — , that sings

In music ears will never hear.  The gates

Of heaven made of angel wings

Alone will open, but those wings would not

Be made of feathers.  They would be of lights

Alone, those lights not made for matter, naught

But beauty in their rays, rays heaved from heights

Beyond the myths that men have made.   We want

A sonnet made of glossolalia,

A poem made of silk sent strange to haunt

Us, woven in pontificalia.

  We want those vestments to replace what pope

    Or bishop wears, a perfect clothless hope.

~ Phillip Whidden