Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Master Poet Mark Knopfler by Bob Atkinson

Master Poet Mark Knopfler

(c)2012 Bob Atkinson

seems here a decision needs made
should I go with the flow
or send out large waves
stand for change, or bury my thoughts
let them alone, or shake up the process

toward the shores of calm lakes of the past
tranquil mediocrity crowds out progress
keeps the emotional elements suppressed
rips out the works of the best

this lets the world stand still
and a genre fester, sadly killed
keeping the Poet as not a large man
one with soul lacking, not with talent

or, should I without remorse
no regard to safety of my name in due course
shout it out loudly even if vainly
not my style to be quiet I'll hammer it plainly

in my mind
current establishment can't hold its own
gives accolades to drivel 
to their own they throw bones

if this shakes some conventional airs
my thoughts wildly passioned carried by stares
as I look at what we have produced
our libraries and bookstores lie dusty unused

if it costs me so dearly in getting support
then so be it, at least have not lost my goals
to swim in a school of sardines so aligned
a shark only smiles as his teeth cut spines

here's the dilemma
please help me decide
which course leads toward harmony
away from the divide

which way to proceed
which route to take
whose feelings do I hurt
when I stand up and state

an establishment that feeds on egos ferment
an old way of looking at those older precepts
cannot, will not, move toward the future
without redirection in assumptions of usage

poetry, hereafter, garners much fame
when acknowledge as useful within all our brains
prior to now, we see those who use
words with some useless, careless attitude

they call themselves poets
even have credentials of note
from org's and associations of folks
who seem important and fixed
with attitudes of the stately mix

although their impact to life is just nil
would not in all earnest from them get a thrill
can't lift wings of a gnat their words have no power
don't garner approval from a younger crowd

from the masses of people of different classes
both young and old, the lads and the lasses
some very timid some loud some bold
some learned some savvy some overly stoned

they call themselves talent
but talent eludes all of their works
which they publish though useless

walls of halls in apartments of brick
are lined with vanity's sickly garbage tricks
that which they see as oh so unique
makes some like me think they are dopey not slick

they give out as presents
to all relatives and friends
their "great works" toiled
many night times in bed

their friends buy their books
only when cornered
relatives smirk smugly
when not rightly sober

their wives smile sweetly
when reading diatribes
not wanting to work
on soothing hurt pride

so.....here in this verse
I do now declare
a quiet war of words
about those who don't care

that poetry in form
has many central themes
can come in all forms
from whispers to screams

from spoken to sung for anyone
as long as it's words shouted or written
and brings out emotional feelings
it is poetry which has useful meaning

if it doesn't bring out emotional bursts
laughter, singing or some such loud spurt
elation or sadness or wicked gladness
some form of confusion or sad illusions

then poetry it isn't and a poet he's not
and his cheap self image hasn't bought
him the title which he gave himself
that Willy Wonka toy on his belt

he or she must
in order to be Master of Poetry
write with the Master Poet's hand
must have purpose and grand emotion
to the word of mankind have pure devotion

I leave you example
a good refrain
by Mark Knopfler
a Master Poet of fame

if your words don't match his in depth
then you're not a poet and thus you should quit
leaving the verse to those who can write
who understand the meaning of words not so trite

"........You get a shiver in the dark
It's raining in the park but meantime
South of the river you stop and you hold everything
A band is blowing Dixie double four time
You feel alright when you hear that music ring

well now You step inside but you don't see too many faces
coming in out of the rain to hear the jazz go down
competition in other places
but the horns are blowin' that sound
Way on down south way on down south London town...."
(Sultans of Swing, by Mark Knopfler) 

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