The Poets Puzzle

Not that the world doesn’t appreciate him

The world just cannot see him

Among the throngs of those who pretend to be him

Day dreamers who might fantasize themselves him

Lost in the tumult of thousands who imagine themselves poets.

When pen and word were the play ground of the trained few

The masses pleased enough to read the works of the blessed

And words were so much more than the means to the end

But words were the end unto themselves

When words mattered, as a mans word did

Reading, if not well read, better fed, better off and better bred

If breeding their only pursuit, in theory and practice

Opining of flowers and deflowering

while knowing not the noun from the verb

Whilst words are counted rather than measured

So the poet struggles onward, in an ocean of pretenders

Self aggrandizement and sexual prowess unveiled rewarded

Whilst the humble craft of the word smith languishes

Starving at the tables edge of fashionable consumerism

Oft spitting out the crumbs for lack of flavor

Rather to starve on quality than fatten on scraps of mediocrity

The poet is thin, and gaunt in spirit

But smiling through anonymity he fights on

sword in hand that he might strike a blow for words

In a world of deaf ears to cast his words upon

Deafened to the noble sound of words

A world that hears only the well marketed cacophony

The poet sings on in hopes that one voice might be heard

Amongst the millions of cries, one song might carry out

Above the thunderous racket that is our latest century

Amongst all the words that the mind might devour

These few words might find their own hour

And be found more sweet than sour

In the ears of those who world hear their power

And understand the poets puzzle

I just thought i should explain this rambling non-sense,....

It seems that poets are rare these days,... real ones,.. good ones. In an age of the internet and self publication, anyone can merely pronounce themselves a poet, pay hard cash to see their own words in print and bully their friends into buying a copy or ten in order to finance the next literary debacle to be foisted upon their unsuspecting friends at a later but inevitable date.

In an age when literally every one can pretend to be a writer by publishing a Tweet, Blurb, Blog, Post or hub, the world is overwhelmed by the avalanche of written material. The literary pallet is quite assuredly drowning in the material available to it. Gorging ourselves intellectually on reality TV and what passes for the well crafted story, we are growing mentally obese on the high calorie low nutrition drivel we’ve come to crave. Like the sugar laden soda and carb filled convenience snacks we’ve become addicted to, we devour the fast food style entertainment from our flat screen shrines as much as we pull our gigantic cars through the drive through window.

In a world that enables the delusional in their self aggrandizing dreams of being a published great author,… the real poetry,… the words worthy of midnight ponderings, and care worn re-readings,.. True works of literary greatness,… are lost in the ocean of literary mediocrity,… like a message in a bottle praying to be picked up by just one person who would be willing to put down the I-Pod, turn off the flat screen,… and read.