The Poet’s Fate

         

 

 

 

 

We lie: with every minor beauty
buxomed up, their craggy forms
bloated by odious praise, then duty
’s done its worst; we now have norms       

buxomed up, their craggy forms
busted out on bones where dozy
’s done its worst. We now have norms
plumped up to make forms cosy,       

busted out on bones where dozy
’s deathly deeds’ve trumped art, sly,
plumped up to make forms cosy.
Besides, I haven’t an idea why

deathly deeds’ve trumped art; sly
pantoums slink across this field,
besides. I haven’t an idea why
obedience takes its place. I yield:

pantoums slink across this field
bloated by odious praise, then duty;
obedience takes its place. I yield -
we lie with every minor beauty.