The late great Robert Hughes was a much more worthy antagonist than such dross actually deserves! I'm afraid that as a lover of the plastic arts all my life, I take it as axiomatic that the 'art world' lost the plot a long time ago and that the missing trousers are all that is left - in most, if not all, cases. Hence the starting point for one of my recent (and oh so sadly neglected!) sallies in the Light Verse bake-off, which, on that slender excuse, I'll give an outing now!
THE SONGS UNSUNG
Most people find modern art’s missed its
direction, while chasing its tail,
yet prophets grow gross on its profits
with concepts too gaping to fail.
But poetry scarce pays its piper -
no fortunes are rung on its till,
for verses form no rich man’s cipher –
their codes free to wander at will.
Dead words need no tank to preserve them
and, unmade, they make little sense –
no pronoun repeated’s an anthem
and white space is simply absence.
So why are there poets who seek to
obscure vague conceptions and, worse,
lame language with feet that are too few
for metre that’s merely perverse?
Can’t they see? The public’s not buying,
big money is bent on big works,
the unmemorisable’s dying -
for their lines vacuity lurks.
So where is the verse Vetriano?
A Hockney of popular odes?
There’s futures today in guano
but none in most poetry’s modes.
Perhaps this just needs turning inside-out - if anyone sees what I mean - to refit it for the Speccies pet-hates, which I am mildly alarmed to find that, in this case, I share!
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