Ship Of Nonsense

There is no artifice, no motive base or greed at
best explaining where we poets came to this. The
flock that gathers round us feeds on words we’ve
writ in adulatory need; although our words are still
the same they were when they ignored our names.

They come to read and sign their names within
the light of plastic fame, the numbers game, the
foot-light glow of audience appeal that steals the
heart of poetry. Innocents as we might be we
play unblamed in their inflamed necrotic shame.

This is a ship of nonsense. I am ashamed by being
in its company. My defence? I needed audience to
learn to live or die poetic death; to be denied the
breath of life within the sight of crowds appealing
overpowered my failing sense of hearing. But we

are still at sea and under sail, the wind of change has
risen to a potent breeze, the storm that threatens
off the leeward shore is way beyond our power to
steer a passage clear between the rocks and conscience
calling. I’ll have no part of it. I must abandon ship.

Happy journeying from here.
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell