Poetry is a social instrument!
It may be cool, but turn incandescent;
But none gives earnest thought to the grim lot
Of the unfortunate poet polyglot.

Who drank too deep from the Pierian Spring,
And angry muses, vexed, and chastising
Hand him a flute, dispatched from Hellespont,
With tubes and pipes affixed in rear and front;

On these the reckless guzzler may rehearse,
And blow through them his motley rhyme and verse,
Practice on each of them his skill until
Maltreated pipes begin to wail and squeal.

This flute forbids deft ambiguity,
So highly prized in lyric poetry!
Each pipe,- a tongue, may shrivel or expand,
But will not tilt for metaphoric slant.

Nor will the furious muses acquiesce
To grant the hobo savoir-faire’s finesse.
Thus he is doomed to tootle, tweet and blow
Until the weaker ducts fluff pigs-ears show.



O bitter lot!. yet blow his pipes he must
For fear the social instrument should rust!
The Holy Writ affirms and makes it clear
The Lord holds polyphonic music dear



And fully understands that brusque and blunt
And gawky pipes resist a devious slant,
But spurs the poet on his craft to tend,
And blow with zest his social instrument.




© Elizabeth Dandy