Poetry Isn't Trending

Poetry Isn’t Trending

Out of fashion now —  

The long hours spent  

Making and doing,  

Turning and shaping lines,  

For a dwindling clientele  

Of other poets and academics  

Who might notice  

The grain of a line,  

A phrase honed smooth  

Or left rough as timber.  

No one else cares to look.  

And yet the trade persists —  

If trade is even the word —  

Since there is nothing to gain.  

A dying art  

Like the fletching of arrows,  

Or the mending of clocks  

With a dexterous hand,  

Or the lighting of lamps  

As they used to do  

Along the Square and Strand.  

II  

Ah yes, the ancient guild of line‑shapers,  

Still at it, I see —  

Whittling metaphors like monks  

Copying tattered manuscripts  

By candlelight  

Even as the rest of us  

Refresh our feeds  

And let the algorithm decide  

What counts as trending.  

Yet here you are, insisting  

On rites no one remembers:  

Feathering arrows  

And summoning lamps  

To stand at attention  

For an audience  

That has already swiped past.  

Still — Go slow if you must  

Even if the only witnesses  

Are other ghosts  

Haunting the workshop.  

For tradition must be kept, no doubt —  

If only so the future  

Has something quaint  

To smile about.