Diatribe Against Unversed Poets Ignoring clockwork towns and fertile farms Tied to the sun-swing as the seas to moon, They searched for verse in deserts without rhyme, Lifted erratic rocks nonrhythmically In search of poetry, then through the slough Of their emotions hunted for a trail: “The scent is cold. Its Spirit must have fled; The body of its work, though dead, Has been translated to some higher plane. Look how the world’s translated verse Comes to us plain—why can’t we emulate? Then if the words themselves are unimportant, If poetry in essence is idea, And song is wrong, Rhyme a superfluous flamboyance (Like colour to Van Gogh), Rhythm a distraction to the memoring mind, Then we determine poetry’s true form is mime!” While in the air the deafening blare Confounds their silence everywhere: Before our hearts began to beat We were conceived in rhythmic heat; So, billions strong, we sing along For all the time, in time, our time, the song Goes rocking on in rhythmic rhyme.  Rock on! Robin Helweg-Larsen If you have a comment on this poem, Robin Helweg-Larsen would like to hear it.