This poem came to me in an old form as I looked about my old house. As plaster has the tendency to crumble, if not tended to, and will eventually give way structurally, so the forms of Art and Literature, if neglected, will give way to lesser, diluted reflections of themselves.
Since I tend to stick with rhyme and the structure it offers, many, no doubt, laugh at how very out of fashion I am. But I think there is a discipline in rhyme that lends itself to the uncovering of truth. This theory can be broadened to apply to our international experimental overdose of “content” on the internet, where everyone is a writer and no one can cling to the limelight for long. I hope you enjoy the poem. Thanks for coming by to read.
How bound we are by strictures of The New,
Enchained by pop in fact and pop in Art.
For all the older forms no one will view,
And architecture past will fall apart.
Unless a thought obtains that highest sheen,
That gloss of Newness, never glimpsed before,
It joins the trite, banal and yes, unseen,
Like wrinkled women round the catwalk floor.
So seek we Fashion, with its shorter bloom,
Attention-grabbing, even on the wane,
Rejecting those, like pillars in the room,
The plain and wise, who ever preach the same
Dull platitudes. The New reflects our Youth.
The matte and textured Old safeguards the Truth.
Copyright 2022 Andrea LeDew