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