I sigh at the repeated crimes
of those who think, “because it rhymes
it’s Poetry” – and think it right
that they commit in black and white
the murder of the Lyric Muse
with every hackneyed word they use.
The TV ads all sound much worse
when couched in awful doggerel verse
where clichéed lines of metre plain
force words to fit a set quatrain.

If people must write verse at all,
They should take care where stresses fall,
And even more try not to pad
Short lines with words like “so” – so sad,
So sweet, so high, so low, so poor –
More than the reader can endure.

Making good poems is a skill
That cannot be assumed at will,
And many people’s work declares
They cannot even match Pam Ayres.
Listeners won’t tolerate for long
The man who only knows one song
And always sings it out of tune –
Why should bad poets be immune?
If one would like them to be mute
Why should one not throw rotten fruit?

I do not blame the BBC
For poets’ mediocrity –
Just as I do not blame the Tate
For its peculiar claims of late
About what is and isn’t Art –
Because it’s evidently part
Of this insidious malaise
Where black and white are similar greys.

We shrink from judging “bad” or “good”;
Wrongdoers must be “understood”
Not punished; and the sluggard’s ways
Sweetened with undiluted praise.
No wonder no-one scales the heights
Of excellence. No prize invites
Because they all are won with ease
Where mediocrity can please.