The New Colonizers have come
to Profess a poetry alien to Dickinson,
Whitman, Bob Frost, too,
native poets without truck with monarchs
who cannot fly, as butterflies do.
America won World War ll
for luckless Britain, whose half-American pitchman
had already raised the Black and Tans,
and taught the Irish a thing or two.
Stylishly twisted by tentacles of University,
they make poems of no offence to Queens,
nor Cantabridgians in oxblood shoes, poems
pleasing to Dollar Bill, and to Barb Desire.
At college, the play is with words –
here’s the blackboard, there’s the erasure.
As iron bends to the sculptor’s torch, words
shit their pants at the professed poet’s approach.
– Dave Read