I saw poetry butchered on a stage, chopped into pieces and tossed to the audience. I heard it gasped and struggled for breaths but no one came to its rescue. The onslaught trampled down century by century, smearing the names of poets, destroying the pleasure, the intrigue, the wonder, the art that is poetry.
The butcher asked for audience participation. The audience participated. The butcher asked for sing-along. The audience sang along. The butcher bowed humbly, thanked everyone for their undivided attention. The audience clapped as the lifeblood of poetry spilled onto the floor as red as the carpet.
It is finished. The stain on the butcher’s sleeve is all but noticeable. The stain on poetry is spreading.
