Poetry

(after Roy Campbell)
 
They praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again
until only their tinkered out words remain,
they praise there own elitist workmanship
 
then write a poem over and over again,
struggle along for more than sixty times,
abandon all love and poetics that rhymes,
then write a poem over and over again
 
struggle along for more than sixty times,
they despise a poet whose words do flow
while they struggle to complete every row,
struggle along for more than sixty times
 
they despise a poet whose words do flow
says that he types faster than they can write
does not even know the very day from night;
they despise a poet whose words do flow
 
says that he types faster than they can write
while the very words of other poets they copy,
are sheltered, from the rest of humanity,
says that he types faster than they can write
 
while the very words of other poets they copy,
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
are scared of the great world lying beyond;
while the very words of other poets they copy
 
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
their work is without any kind of profundity
and sometimes on them I have a kind of pity,
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
 
their work is without any kind of profundity,
they praise there own elitist workmanship,
they want others them as gods to worship,
their work is without any kind of profundity,
 
they praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again
until only their tinkered out words remain,
they praise there own elitist workmanship.
 
[References: “On some South African novelists” and “On the same” by Roy Campbell.]