Now I’ve been told that no one writes in rhyme.
I seen it writ, and hear it all the time.
‘That isn’t,’ I’ve been told, ‘real poetry.
That’s now the world of abstract imagery.’
Linguistics, I confess, does fascinate:
Potentially, to make both inchoate
And well-developed words take sudden twists,
And turn syntactic rocks to amethysts —
But, usually, I go a different way;
I look for rhythm in what I might say,
And rhyme: a way of flourishing at end
Whatever path my thoughts and words might wend.
I feared, though, often, none would think worth while
Adoption of such antiquated style;
My words would go and come back unremarked,
With no more useless journey e’er embarked —
I’ve done it anyway, and now I find
My fears were groundless, long-since left behind:
For rhyme and rhythm are, I guess, okay –
As long as one has some small thing
(.. . ..)