Introduction

Poetry is an art. It is an expression. A revelation. Inspired. Amidst the ashes of modern poetry, readers may be lucky enough to find a glowing ember. Seldom, it is true, but it does occur. The power of the past has left the world. Today we must revel in what was, and what may be again. Lost are the epics. Lost are their images, their passion. Instead, the modern poet looks out their window, and writes of the sun, or of a small child, or of a flower. Stanzas are devoted to a vivid description, leading towards a climax of a flower in bloom. The reader stops and looks out their own window, and either stares in awe at their own flowers, or will sit in sadness when they realise they have none. The poet has achieved their five minutes of attention, leaving the reader satisfied that this poet is indeed a poet of note, and recomends the reading to friends. Meanwhile, the poet has already written another ten or so poems of flowers, or of dust, or of nothing. The pages of their thesaurus are left ragged, showing the signs of a well loved, and well used book. The poet now looks around, at all the things a good poet should have, and puffs lightly on a cigar, thinking that now they really are a poet. Then a letter slips under the door, fan mail. The poet eagerly opens it, reads the letter, and is left thinking "Homer? Blake? Milton? Who are they?"

Contents

-Page One
-Page Two
-Page Three
-Page Four

-Gnomic Verses