The Poet Mourns for Poetry

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Such a wasteland, as Eliot glimpsed
Was it for nothing they raised Babel?
Had they guessed man was not able?
To even hear of it, the poet winced
Each critique like a column of tanks
Each destroying the previous' ranks
Gripping heaven and earth in futility
Even my words stink of this thought
Of the is over against the ought
A narrow silver coffin of utility
Its reaction, in its own imagination
Came up with an absurd machination
That it would fashion a world ideal
With nothing more than pure, pure genius
They thought, mankind! Have you not seen us
And feared? Towards sacrifice we feel
Such things for it is meet to pour
Except what is the oblation for?
And their fancy was such and such
That their love and peace would be so strong
In victory even those who were wrong
Were in truth only and inasmuch
As they themselves would fancy --
To overcome even that duality?
But the Real had for them a crueler joke
Or a harsher one; for the poor boheme
Had an idea, one, that only did seem
To be freedom, but was just that yoke
That he thought to put on the fools
And was the subject of his own rules
For he had not truly dreamed them up
O anemic! Drink deep of the irony
Is it a surprise the thinker was the one to see?
And did he try in vain to switch the cup
O sad creature, the poet winced
And thought of the fallen ruin's gaze
And the rustling whispers amid the haze
Such a wasteland, as Eliot glimpsed.

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