‘A lot of people high up in poetry circles look down on rhyme and metre and think it is old-fashioned,’ said Bernard Lamb, president of the QES and an academic at Imperial College London. ‘But what is the definition of poetry? I would say, if it doesn’t have rhyme or metre, then it is not poetry, it is just prose. You can have prose that is full of imagery, but it is still prose.’
Vultures a-wing have sullied the glory of the sky; The winds bear on their pinions the horror of Death’s cry; Assassinating one another, men rage and fall and die.
Has Antichrist arisen whom John at Patmos saw? Portents are seen and marvels that fill the world with awe, And Christ’s return seems pressing, come to fulfill the Law.
The ancient Earth is pregnant with so profound a smart, The royal dreamer, musing, silent and sad apart, Grieves with the heavy anguish that rends the world’s great heart.
Slaughterers of ideals with the violence of fate Have cast man in the darkness of labyrinths intricate To be the prey and carnage of hounds of war and hate.
Lord Christ! for what art waiting to come in all Thy might And stretch Thy hands of radiance over these wolves of night, And spread on high Thy banners and lave the world with light?
Swiftly arise and pour Life’s essence lavishly On souls that crazed with hunger, or sad, or maddened be, Who tread the paths of blindness forgetting the dawn and Thee.
Come Lord, to make Thy glory, with lightnings on Thy Brow! With trembling stars around Thee and cataclysmal woe, And bring Thy gifts of justice and peace and love below!
Let the dread horse John visioned devouring stars, pass by; And angels sound the clarion of Judgment from on high. My heart shall be an ember and in thy censer lie.
“Since I have known the body better” – said Zarathustra to one of his disciples – “the spirit has only been to me symbolically spirit; and all the ‘imperishable’ – that is also but a simile.”
“So have I heard you say once before,” answered the disciple, ” and then you added: ‘But the poets lie too much.’ Why didst you say that the poets lie too much?”
“Why?” said Zarathustra. “you ask why? I do not belong to those who may be asked after their Why. Is my experience but of yesterday? It is long ago that I experienced the reasons for my opinions. Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have my reasons with me? It is already too much for me even to retain my opinions; and many a bird flies away. And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote, which is alien to me, and trembles when I lay my hand upon it. But what did Zarathustra once say to you? That the poets lie too much? – But Zarathustra also is a poet. Do you believe that he there spoke the truth? Why do you believe it?”
The disciple answered: “I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled.
“Belief does not sanctify me”, said he, “least of all the belief in myself. But granting that someone did say in all seriousness that the poets lie too much: he was right – we do lie too much.”
CONNECT/HOOK 