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Manifesto

I shall, at last, be driven from this island
Into open sea. I cannot face the poets
Here, the lurid evocations of emotions
Juveniles feel, the muddled mucking
After second-hand synopses of what
Second-raters call profundities, the dire
Clumping of club-footed rhymers, and
What I fear worst: the open-eyed, the
Sadly unsophisticated, gravitation by
These poets, others, too, toward the
Poems' lesser parts, their meanings,
From their greater, how they're written.
How I hope that, once I've crossed
This tossing, empty sea, I'll reach
A land where people understand
That what is said is strictly secondary.
How it's said is all. That is the poetry,
And, in that land, I'll make my home,
A man whose first concern is music,
Meaning being distant second, down
With choice of words.

poem by Lawrence Beck
Added by Poetry Lover
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