Dissent climbs over tradition,

Until it becomes the norm,

The poets' steady hands

Write with such a

Brutally descriptive poignancy,

Of the world and the works,

Water and metal,

Through to rust,

Many loves and affairs,

Whispered nuances,

Though times of war and peace,

Prattled with passion,

The startled words scream from the page,

But sometimes, there,

Those clinging so to the former revolt,

Bigoted as those trapped in tradition,

And the world of words

Flatly falls from their hands,

As old and new reappear.

 

Tradition clings to the ancient assonant verse,

Sung so in likes of sonnets and villanelles,

In their marriage to metre, so well immersed

 

Their meaning, to mind, seldom stays as the first,

In metaphors one always needs to think to tell,

Born by day and then by the visions of night, are nursed

 

Though some trapped here believe dissent to be a curse,

And they swear and sweat and swell,

But neither can truly be considered worse

 

Reeling with wrath, minorities of both, violently versed,

And rather than on their art, on bitterness, dwell,

Each one with pride, bulging until they threaten to burst

 

Who knows in what, in their own secret company, confers

Lost so well, in that, in which, they used to excel,

But by their bigotry both themselves and their skills are so hurt.

 

Tradition clings to the ancient assonant verse,

Sung so in likes of sonnets and villanelles,

In their marriage to metre, so well immersed,

But needn't be more prestigious than dissent, nor the reverse.