Away with the mental acrobatics
of Modernism – post or otherwise –
and all such elitist dross.
Clarity is what I crave, along with
the beauty of the singing line.
I do not read poetry to be puzzled:
give me wonder and imagination,
the sorcery of the senses, the gossamer
frailty of angel’s wings. Obscurity
kills enjoyment, makes magic meaningless.
I shall leave Pound, Bunting, Eliot, et al,
to the dry deliberations of fusty professors
and academic bores. I will savour instead
elegies to the demise of rare dragonflies,
odes to the blaze of distant galaxies.