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Full Version: Elegant nonsense
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Romantic poetry of every sort is a young man’s game, unless you’re a silly old Eliot in his dotage salivating at the prospect of a young woman to lie with, like King David grown cold in his bed.
Pious or religious poetry is for the feeble minded, and more appropriately belongs to an age when men of eminence studied the classics and thought themselves clever for doing it, even though they couldn’t possibly have written a single line of code.
Epic poetry belongs to an earlier era, when people where scarcely better than savages, or to more recent times, where it’s all about adults play acting and dreaming up ultimately shallow, derivative worlds 
So what do you write about as you get older? The grand themes of death, and the meaning of life, the sad chuckling from the sofa whilst nursing a glass of brandy is too middle class and Anglo. Even true personal tragedy is a drop in the common ocean of tears that becomes visible over time.

It is at these times that I wish I could exhume Eliot’s bones and cast stones at them, in the manner of Bernard Shaw who wished it for Shakespeare, for the crime of writing the elegant nonsense of East Coker.
Where does busker fit
In the peotic realm of wit
The Galapagos ghosts
And Cambodian lights
Illuminating the way of Jesus
Christus and the baobab Prius
Flowering the follies of job
Tickling the ear lobe
With a soft Johnson
Of some young son
In sodom, I mean gomorrahs
Gonorrhea epidemic sent for ya
In the dim lit wonders of Egypt
Forget it. Buskers shit keeps with it.
Nice. I shall revisit in due course. Right now,

'tis time to write a proposal
and call it good work.
Certainly, 'tis less stressful
than battling the Turk
on the hills of Gallipoli, now Canakkale called
(though it was never Gallipoli in the first place,
that peninsula overlooking the fields of Thrace,
but held amongst its prominences Callipolis town).

I shall revisit these lines wearing a frown,
and argue Yehoshua's body still lies underground.