Birthing Pains and Other Poetry
The gods have fled? They haven't been invited! A century has passed opposing beauty And now we stand depressed, dismayed, indicted As artists for our failure at our duty. Our art, our poetry--none beautiful Enough to bring the gods to Earth-- None terrible enough to bravely cull Us of the evil spirits we give birth. We ought to bravely, boldly mark our blaze-- Instead, we set all art ablaze and kill The soul--the avant garde's designed to raze Instead of raise us--empty, never fill. We wander lonely, stripped of flesh and soul-- We've been abandoned--art has lost its goal.
Oh sun, send forth your silent rays On all our melancholy days, On me and those who follow me, To raise an ancient reverie. I've seen the paintings on these walls So many times I see their flaws-- My feet, my hips in searing pain Like van Gogh I might go insane. He who asks questions knows far more Than he who asks you nothing. War With those who hide from lunar light, Rejecting poetry's delight. The music rises, rises, falls Reminding us of ancient calls-- The searing pain, the sudden joy The strings, the woodwinds, drums deploy. The sun of truth, the moon of verse Together lift the ancient curse, Together paint a brand new art, Where music never can depart.
Troy Camplin is a poet, playwright, and independent scholar living in Richardson, TX. With his B.A. in recombinant gene technology, Master's in English, and Ph.D. in the Humanities, the majority of his scholarly work is naturally on economics. He writes for Medium, has a poetry blog at http://troycamplinpoetry.blogspot.com, and has plays available at New Play Exchange