A Canadian's Poem(1)

and what, after all,
was so wrong
with simple rhyme

and quaint folk
ballads of love?

have poets often
not been first
burst to spot

shape still forming from ground

dipped diamond-tipped pens
in pools of time

stirring up
currents of insights

that grew, in course
of time to waves?

do we not
compose,

solely for handfuls
of loyal listeners

bubblings up wellsprings,
words

meant merely to delight
and entertain the mind

moving heart to very muscle?

but what have all these labours
by we self-confessed saviours,

the 'unacknowledged legislators
of the world'*
produced?

a laugh or two?

maybe even a few
bucks on the side?

a moment's pride?

lifetimes
brain-busting
heart-burst ing
outpourings

measuring,
on balance,

about a penny each?

yet still poets
ply trade
reporting,

as is calling,
pivot points of day-

so what can
such a minute
band of misfits,

forever at odds
with every era

do but
lift up
unheard voices

on behalf of
voiceless humanity?

*Percy Bysshe Shelley: A Defence of Poetry; 1821

poem by Doug Bentley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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