Penned on public transport. To no-one in particular.

Dear Carol Ann
You are bland
You may have guessed,
I'm not a fan

If an answer is an echo, or a shadow,
Or a ghost, of what came first
It's surely worse

A poem is a wondrous form of art
It's language with the keenest care selected,
With sophistry and skill connected
To capture the essential, the experiential
Feeling personal, thought universal

If a novel be a film or symphony
A poem is a sound bite or still, to me,
A chord or cadence
Sounding within us.

A flash of inspiration
Just like the humming bird
Spontaneous perfection

Why taint the vivid colours of past masters
With the grey of modern day?
And dare to count this meddling as an "answer"?

With contrived gimmickry you cheapen your occupation
And stifle the genuine spark of new creation

The horse was called "Kipling"! What a wit!
If it were called "Duffy" I wouldn't back it.
Your stodgy verse and punch lines you can keep,
Better a stumbling horse, than one of the following sheep