Too Much Prose

Too much prose
Is in my soul:
The bard grows anemic, tired, cranky,
Forced to turn rhymes over cold, dessicated
Objects of musings.
Once alive with woe and self-pity,
I sighed and sobbed most eloquently.
Now that I have tired of such
Foolishness, I find myself winded,
Speechless with apathy.
To slave over abstract themes and dead objects seems
A hideous bore,
To stoke my nether emotions,
Worse than useless.
It's drama and life that make true art.
What story can be told without life?
What is art bereft of the living?
Sterile music,
Parlor decoration,
Or erudite rambling.
I suppose now that this
Is why so much music that is Baroque
Or Classical engages me so little,
Why the Romantic composers,
Even much of the moderns,
Are so much more meaningful.
The sweetest art flows from the heart,
From the passions of life, from tears and ecstasy,
From intrigue and drama.

Tell me a story, oh Muse!
My gift is nothing without it.

George Chadderdon © 1997