Goddamn this quaint, anachronistic crap!
I find that more and more, I am annoyed
By all the stuffy turns of phrase deployed
To make a rhyme. I've fallen in a trap
Set by the masters, and I hear the snap
Again and yet again. I can't avoid
Archaic diction, clichés stiff and cloyed,
Which frame my images like gold-leaf wrap
Around a worn-out pair of leather shoes
Which reek of mold and centuries of dust.
It seems I haven't really paid my dues
As a poet. See how I have placed my trust
In flash and form and pomp. My dowdy Muse,
I wear your trappings like a scabby crust.
George Chadderdon © 1996