In re ars poetica

With unknown ear your unseen mind must find in strings of prose
for unheard eyes that cannot feel the shape I call a rose.

So sharp-edged toy, prolixity, remains behind my gate,
forbidden service in the task of passing on my news
as common terms do what I want---and no one gets confused!
It's not too hard a chore for me: I rarely obfuscate.

I do not stretch my tongue to seem some mighty man of brain.
The short-familiar-phrase I deem the thing-to-make-things-plain.

I'll run some risks; I'll be the bore who spouts his peasant facts
in hackneyed speech when that's the tool that gets the damn thing done.
I do not mind to seem coarse fool.  Betimes, that's really fun.
'Poetic' is yon painted whore, that pile of empty sacks.

(Yet, when the nicest cut's desired:  hapax legomenon!
So strange a term may be required, but seldom more than one).

We poets now serve jaded muse with overheated air,
so pretty vapor's all you read, or misty-swirly smoke.
I must supply my readers' needs (and maybe have my joke)
believing that my aims excuse apparent lack of care.

I might have written lavish lines,  but that I did not do.
At hazard, I wrote unrefined:  I thought at last of you.


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the piece below was better than the original draft, but it still had lacks, which I patched over (above), changing the language in L6 to conform to common idiom, and enhancing the gimmick in L1-2 by giving mention of another of the senses (making five, if 'rose' be read rightly by my reader as proxy for sense of smell).

 
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With unknown ear your unseen mind must find in strings of prose
for unheard eyes, that now are blind, the shape I call a rose.

So sharp-edged toy, prolixity, remains behind my gate,
forbidden service in the task of passing on my news
as common terms do what I want---and no one gets confused!
It's not a chore too hard for me: I rarely obfuscate.

I do not stretch my tongue to seem some mighty man of brain.
The short-familiar-phrase I deem the thing-to-make-things-plain.

I'll run some risks; I'll be the bore who spouts his peasant facts
in hackneyed speech when that's the tool that gets the damn thing done.
I do not mind to seem coarse fool.  Betimes, that's really fun.
'Poetic' is yon painted whore, that pile of empty sacks.

(Yet, when the sweetest cut's desired:  hapax legomenon!
So strange a term may be required, but seldom more than one).

We poets now serve jaded muse with overheated air,
so pretty vapor's all you read, or misty-swirly smoke.
I must supply my readers' needs (and maybe have my joke)
believing that my aims excuse apparent lack of care.

I might have written lavish lines,  but that I did not do.
At hazard, I wrote unrefined:  I thought at last of you.


.  .  .  .


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(this below is what was originally posted; that was probably an error.  I should NOT have posted the first draft.   Only the bare majority of lines went unrevised---sloppy work!  I include it, with the revised (second) draft above, to supply a visible case of revision, for those who might find that interesting study.  I know I'd love to see the succession of revisions of some work I've read here.

And it isn't a terribly difficult process to document.  Copy the whole last draft; make the modifications.  Insert separators.  The only tricky part is remembering to put the latest revision on top of the pile.)


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With unseen ear your unknown mind must pluck my strings of prose
for unheard eyes, that now are blind, the shape I call a rose.

So sharp-edged toy, prolixity, is left behind the gate,
forbidden service in the task of passing on the news
as common terms do what I want---and no one gets confused!
'Tis not a chore too hard for me: I rarely obfuscate.

I do not stretch my tongue to seem some mighty man of brain.
The short-familiar-phrase I deem the thing-to-make-things-plain.

I'll run some risks; I'll be the bore delivering coarse facts
in hackneyed speech when that's the tool to get the damn job done.
I do not mind to seem the fool.  Sometimes it's even fun.
'Poetic' is my painted whore, that pile of empty sacks.

(Yet, when the sweetest cut's desired:  hapax legomenon!
So strange a term may be required, but seldom more than one).

We poets now serve jaded muse with overheated air,
so pretty vapor's all you read, a misty-swirly smoke.
I must supply my readers' needs (and maybe have my joke)
believing that my aims excuse apparent lack of care.

I might have written lavish lines,  but that I did not do.
At hazard, I wrote unrefined:  I thought at last of you.