Centuries ago, when poetry was prized,
A gift for the gifted, the poets revered—
With reverence spoken, their names sanctified,
The chosen who tamed what the wild heart had feared.
They mastered the beast with vocabulary vast,
Commanded the rhyme and the rhythm’s sure beat;
Iambic pentameter flowed without pause,
Imagery bloomed at their effortless feat.
Similes, metaphors sprang as if born from the air,
Alliteration, assonance danced in their lines—
Consonance, caesura, enjambment so rare,
Onomatopoeia, like bells that entwines.
Symbol and hyperbole, repetition’s art,
They wielded with ease, like a bicycle ride
Or a meal savored simply—no strain in the heart,
Exponents whose depths left the reader to bide.
The bard stood tallest, yet many matched his fire,
Prolific in pages of meter that sang,
Sonnets unfurled with no sweat to inspire,
Cadence perfection in couplets that rang.
Now ease has descended; we’ve loosened the chains,
Relaxed every rule in our free-verse delight.
Poets today wield devices, yet none must restrain—
No meter enforced, no rhyme locked in sight.
Sonnets needn’t fourteen iambs in a row,
Nor ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG.
We break them with glee, let the wild verses flow,
And still claim the name—sonnet, fancy-free.
Free verse reigns supreme, where we write as we please,
Prose chopped to lines, called poetry now.
Down from the pedestal, accessible, these
Verses that anyone utters somehow.
I wonder oft: Was it right to unthrone
The aura of old, to shatter the glass?
To liberty’s call, let the strict rules atone?
Time holds the verdict; the ages will pass.
Yet gladness fills me—the barriers fell,
Now poetry flows from my hand and my soul,
No beast to be tamed, just a story to tell.
