Poeta Doctus

A line in a recent poem of mine reads, ‘”…Dante, Hölderlin, Whitman.” “They’re dead,” they said, an absolutely modern.’

The opinion, or, more charitably, judgement, of that “absolutely modern” is one I’ve encountered and that has irked me for nearly a generation (i.e., three decades) now. The well-read reader has likely already arrayed a phalanx of arguments to skewer said opinion, and I would hope the litotic irony that underwrites my line would serve as sufficient refutation, especially as, its being Easter weekend and I’m reading through the Commedia, “I have no will to try proof-bringing.”

That being said, a poem of mine published a while back in Scrivener, touches on, if not quite addresses, the topic. I offer it here, in print and voice.

I remain fairly persuaded this intervention is unlikely to be my final word on the matter…