Oh, William, Imagists paint different views.
Your sonnets are, with Flarfers, lately rent.
The Moderns now make humble pie of you.
An Apple terms your ‘summer’s day’ a vent!
Oh, William, where must soulful poet step;
my heat of passion is aghast for love!
They know not of pentameter, those shleps
or how to rhyme expectant like the dove.
Now, verse, they say, free as a gambler’s chance!
Throw any word; wired, juxtaposed through air.
The line is not conditioned for romance.
Egalitarian, all poets share.
“There’s nothing new beneath the sun”, they squawk.
As each write through the other like a hawk.
Read: ‘You Call That a Poem?! Understanding the Flarf Movement’. by Jack Chelgren,’15:
“Originality isn’t dead, nor will it ever be, but to what lengths should we cling to authorship and the pretense of novelty in our work, and to what end?”
This writers opinion: If you have writer’s block, too bad! But don’t call it your ‘original’ when it is not!