To share with students of our nearby school.
Should I tell tales of poetry of yore
Or will they think this bard a doting fool?
What would they make of ancient verse and forms,
With lines that march like military men?
Each with its syllables so well-arranged
One weak, one strong, all adding up to ten.
What would I tell these youths about the Muse
Who sits and whispers in the ears of bards?
To ancient Greek this always was a man
And thus each woman from poetics barred.
How to describe each iamb as a foot?
Not foot that runs or kicks a basketball,
But mark of meter, sonorous, weak then strong
That carries listener with verse along.
What should I say of rhythm and of rhyme
These ancient pulses of the human heart
Predating even alphabets themselves
As round the campfire listeners took part?
The ancient poets used theatric form
To tell of ancient exploits of their men.
The military battles that they won
The animals they felled to feed the clan.
In memory ancients carried poetry
No written words could help them to recall
And yet they must tell tales that entertained
Must paint what others never saw at all.
Young poets of today have laxer rules
For working out the lines of poetry
Yet still old rhythms hold a sway of power
Still ancient rhymes march on their sonorous way.
And so I say to noble Enver youth
List to the Muse, pick up that errant pen.
The poets of the past stand not apart:
Go forth and carry on their ancient art.
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