Poison Quills
The Eye of the Quill Feather
A humorous ode dedicated to those critics who over the years have stated that rhyming poetry is childish or mundane, and that writers often begin with this poetic device before progressing to other, “more serious forms" of poetry…
The critics beckoned, soul for soul,
Through centuries unbound,
The poet’s gift to judge their words
And measure pound for pound;
The poison quills that etched the past
Gave way to station keys
To fashion words with fatal clicks
In shallowed expertise.
As candle glows would dim the sight
Of wizened eyes in view,
The lumens flooding modern light
Will catch them still askew;
To censure those who write amiss,
The critic’s noble claim…
Has blushed to see the shifting tides
Sweep fresh a poet’s name;
No judge of verse will tether me
To words not savored true,
If solstice calls then heed I shall
To cleanse the taste anew.
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© 2024 Genna Eastman
