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Tuesday, 15 May 2012

New Poem by Ben Mazer

Upon Waking with an Editorial Hangover
Some think that meter's had its bloody turn,
and that it should be buried in Keats' urn.
They feel that the experiments of Shelley
do nothing to assault the nerves to jelly.
They'd gladly give up struggling through Lord Byron,
prefer by far the simple prose of Styron.
Milton stops their blood and turns it cold,
while Wordsworth on his mountaintops seems old.
Even when it's roughened as in Ransom,
it is the New York Times that sets them dancin'.
While there are those who read the avant-garde,
excited that its formlessness is hard
for nearly everyone to understand;
like hungry wolves they travel in a band
and howl with vital passion at the moon,
finding in chaos beauty and a tune.
While I am neither for it or against it,
and call on language only as I've sensed it.
It seems I take my language as I find it;
mine is the more progressive form of blinded.
I am reborn -- unmetered -- lacking form;
I'll find my inspiration in a storm.



poem by Ben Mazer
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