Uninspired,
No tincture do I wish impart
Into thine languid, tired heart
Unfired by the poet’s slant,
Which, without, is pained and scant,
And know ye come here to be filled
With outside breath cordially spilled,
But, nay, I’ve read too sparse or none import
To offer florid fair retort,
Else my toil and affairs
Disallow artistic airs,
Or, perhaps, too much time perusing maps
Instead of travelling,
For what’s the ear to hear from taps
Without their trickling?
Run dry I have of mind-emotion,
Now only but quill-devotion,
As a birder walks along
Knowing all names and not one song,
A poison for the potion,
Which dilutes the carmine flower
To a pallid, paltry power,
Wherewith no mountains move
But remain staid as if to prove
That brush or ink no magic hold
Lest they tell tales so long foretold,
Ne’er to make anew,
Thus we have but precious few
All from the same old mold.
Wherefore doth lore to man restore
His lightened library?
Will come a day to right abhor
When dies our poetry?
Nay! I tell you sure,
I say it pure:
‘Tis a gloss of ev’ry speech
Always within every reach,
No new language there to learn
But the flame causing it burn,
Which without you’ve only wood
To lend to thee in cold no good,
And speak with numb frostbitten throat
Beneath a thin and threadbare coat,
Mountains staid where they have stood.
No! Let the snowcaps deliquesce!
Lend their flow mine ears to bless!
Let the landslide crash and glide,
Exposing gold that cannot hide!

-Poyetikos