In Defense of Poetry
My love, I know it must seem strange to
hear
The cadence of Elizabethan times
Spring from the pen of one who all his
life
Has only known the dry and juiceless,
jangling
Rhythms of the speech of modern men.
Yet now my words do seem to tumble forth
And shape themselves, sans effort on my
part,
Into the meter of th’ immortal Bard,
And seek, thereby, to tempt you into
being
My Juliet, despite the barriers
Of space and time, that, cruelly, do
keep
Us from that loving union, which beyond
All doubt, is our eternal destiny.
Such thoughts as these, born fresh and
tender from
The heart, as from a womb, would wrap
themselves
Inside the warmth of verse, and shun the
cooler
Garb of dull and lifeless prose. So true
Is this that I am sure Love’s Architect
Could never build more than a humble hut
Without the varied instruments of verse.
It is not mere chance that all the
sweetest
Tales of love that have been handed down
to us,
That give us glimpses of the ecstasy
That only lovers know, are told in words
That sing and dance, that burn inside
our minds
With fire and smoke and heat, that only
the wet
And wintry depths of silent death can
quench.
The poets do pluck the harpstrings of
our hearts with
Wondrous skill, and all of us, drab
creatures
That we are, starved for the manna that
only
Beauty from the heavens can distill,
Do yield the secret music of our beings
To their artistry.
So, is it now so very strange that I,
In seeking to give voice to thoughts and
feelings
That fall not lightly from the lips,
should turn
To verse and try to strum the lyre of
poetry?
“My love for you is like a rosebud that,
Responding to the juice of life that
flows
Into it from the roots below, sunk deep
Into the dark and fertile soil of care,
Has just begun to swell with joy and
open
Up it’s soft and tender petals to
The glowing light of heaven; fearful of
The heat and brightness of the day, that
have
The pow’r to scorch and shrivel, unless
there is
A ceaseless stream of nourishment, but yet
Determined still to reach it’s full
fruition
In the splendor of a full-grown rose,
that’s
Bared at last to wind and sun and rain
Mature and strong, and sharing with the
world
A beauty that a fear of life and pain
Could have forever hid.”
----Robert E. Field, 5 Sept 1978
