Genius once visited the young
before life was saturated and sung.
The best poems, by any measure,
poets wrote at twenty-two,
immersed in the chores of plain life.
Factories today make the so-called new
after calculations and awards;
The old now anticipate
agendas children, frowning, must feel.
Genius stands aghast. It doesn’t visit.
Poetry feels unreal.
Once upon a time adults didn’t know
everything. They would wait
on the new—the child’s blank slate.
Offer neutral tools: reading, writing;
then stand back.
The youthful god was so exciting.
But now the old intrude, claiming indoctrination
cures indoctrination; the intrusive method
proves the intrusive method true:
Still repeating slogans,
the clutching poet, a windy blank at forty-two.