All those poems about
Greece and its ancient myths
from you, o imagists who
never were closer to it
than the French Riviera
and the Etruscan lands
which Rome took.
Who were you to
write these poems, you
who didn't see the bare hills
fall into the azure sea,
who didn't listen to the
sound of heavy, warm rain
fall through days of dark
breaking waves that came
pitiless like carrying
some long drowned
mariners from a futile
war in Asia?
You, you were nothing,
o imagists, in your
gray London which
encrusted you
with smog and
vanities of class
and names taken
from dictionaries and
books of simplified myths for
the better sort of children
of not quite upper-class parents.
It's a land as devoid of myths
as it's of forests, as devoid
as your own city of rivers
turned into sewers,
o imagists. You
should have just
written about your sewers
and of the high tide that carried
your bodies' achievements
back up the Thames
towards the city
of their birth.
02.04.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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