A Poet's Voice
Posted: Sat Dec 19, 2015 3:13 pm
This is a (hopeful) response to Neil's "Are we dying as an Association?" thread.
A Poet’s Voice
There’s so much in our world today
that needs a poet’s voice,
a quiet word that tries to say
that we must make a choice
between a life that feeds
on fear, or hate, or grief or pain,
and one which takes a path that leads
to signs of hope again.
There’s climate change, which needs a plan,
and poverty world-wide,
disease that shows the hand of man
cannot yet match his pride.
The Middle East is torn apart
by ancient hatreds still,
while drink and drugs lie at the heart
of frailties that kill.
And yet if I should try to write
a verse about these things,
to try to cast a little light
on what such sorrow brings,
so many people seem confused
that I should turn to rhyme,
as if a law has been abused,
some sort of written crime.
“That rhyming stuff is dead and gone,
it’s past its use-by date,
so give it up, don’t waffle on,
it doesn’t resonate!”
And yet, if they take time to sit
and hear a poem through
they’ll often grudgingly admit
they’ve learnt a thing or two.
“All right, not bad, I’ve changed my mind,
that poetry’s okay,
I never thought that I would find
it relevant today.
So maybe I might take a look
at other things you’ve done…
I see you’ve brought along a book,
so why not sell me one?”
And slowly, slowly, over time,
in places here and there,
as people are exposed to rhyme,
they might begin to care,
to see that our poetic voice
is still alive and well,
and offering another choice…
the stories that we tell.
© David Campbell 19/12/15
A Poet’s Voice
There’s so much in our world today
that needs a poet’s voice,
a quiet word that tries to say
that we must make a choice
between a life that feeds
on fear, or hate, or grief or pain,
and one which takes a path that leads
to signs of hope again.
There’s climate change, which needs a plan,
and poverty world-wide,
disease that shows the hand of man
cannot yet match his pride.
The Middle East is torn apart
by ancient hatreds still,
while drink and drugs lie at the heart
of frailties that kill.
And yet if I should try to write
a verse about these things,
to try to cast a little light
on what such sorrow brings,
so many people seem confused
that I should turn to rhyme,
as if a law has been abused,
some sort of written crime.
“That rhyming stuff is dead and gone,
it’s past its use-by date,
so give it up, don’t waffle on,
it doesn’t resonate!”
And yet, if they take time to sit
and hear a poem through
they’ll often grudgingly admit
they’ve learnt a thing or two.
“All right, not bad, I’ve changed my mind,
that poetry’s okay,
I never thought that I would find
it relevant today.
So maybe I might take a look
at other things you’ve done…
I see you’ve brought along a book,
so why not sell me one?”
And slowly, slowly, over time,
in places here and there,
as people are exposed to rhyme,
they might begin to care,
to see that our poetic voice
is still alive and well,
and offering another choice…
the stories that we tell.
© David Campbell 19/12/15