September 11th Epic Poem Chapter 11

The Following is chapter 11 of the September 11th Epic Poem. The rough draft was written between June 2008 and May 2010. It is 2,000 lines long and has 1,499 rhyming pairs.

 

CHAPTER 11  (The 20thcentury)  

Some years ago in times of woe
            When wars were being fought,
A star appeared, whom most revered,
            And told us what he thought.
This poet’s name[11] is wreathed in fame
            In both the hemispheres,
Who wrote about the inner drought
            That bathed our world with tears.
 
The planet’s plight was bad despite
            Our scientific gain.
It seemed to those who watched its throes
            The world had gone insane.
When faith and trust were in the dust
            And money reigned supreme,
The hopes of some had now become
            A nightmare of a dream.
 
 
They thought at last with all that passed
            The church had been disproved.
Which left, disrobed, a mournful globe,
            Where God no longer moved.
Restraints were lost at such a cost
            That all became annoyed.
It cast a hex on even sex[12]
            ‘Till nothing was enjoyed.
 
The sages wept as poets kept  
            Their logs of misery,
While girls were forced and dads coerced
            Through painful liberty.
The final cords that bound the hordes
            From passion’s strongest gusts,
Were torn apart so human hearts
            Could writhe in burning lusts.
 
As feelings tossed respect was lost
            For things proclaimed as “old;”
With so much haste they left in place
            A single moral code.    
It used to be that sanctity
            Of other folks was king,
Until the law of what you saw
            Allowed you anything.
 
It now was wrong to keep the throng
            From taking what they want.
The rest were told they must not scold
            What others loved to flaunt.
“Just close your trap and stop your flap,
            ‘Cuz no one’s getting hurt!”
But that excuse is just a ruse
            To get beneath the skirt.
 
The time had come to pay the sum
            For years of vagrant hopes.             
 They cast their dice for paradise
            Upon a slipp’ry slope.                          
With feet of lead that had no tread
            They caved their culture’s floor;
‘Til things took place that cracked the base,     
            Which time could not restore.
 
 
With selfish pride they justified 
            What once was named as sin.
And built new doors by endless scores
            To let more pleasures in.
But all their sense could never quench
            Their wish to have it all:
They had no clue what houses do
            When stripped of all their wall!
 
The times got tough and men got gruff
            As sin refused their cure.
Throughout the West a horrid test
            Was starting to appear.
Though badly harmed, the allies armed
            To fight a second war;
As Nazis blitzed the battle pitched
            More deadly than before
 
Grenades and guns by metric tons
            Were shipped across the sea.
As things got worse our land was forced
            To face the enemy.
The hot napalm and atom bomb               
            Were used to good effect,
But long before we won the war
            We lost our self-respect.
 
Survivors cracked but most came back
            To some-what happy homes.
With Europe burned the scribes returned  
            To write their gloomy poems.           
Another star had gone too far                  
            Who held our nation’s pride;
He took the stage while battle raged
            To serve the other side.
 
This native son had truly done
            What some could not expound.
They dragged him back to face the flack:
            That traitor Ezra Pound.
The special court was out of sorts
            And said he was insane,
But this small fact did not impact
            His literary reign.
 
Our poets quote the lines he wrote
            While standing on the brink,
And still today they frame the way
            Our scribes are taught to think.
His groupies still will say his ill
            Was brains and not his heart;
They’ve not decried the Jews who died
            While Ezra was so smart.
 
I’m quite enraged they call him sage:
            The leader of his class.
I don’t know why our teachers try
            To give this man a pass.
The simple fact they have his back
            When praises should be nixed;
Supports my poke that what’s been broke
            Has never yet been fixed.
 
They still refuse to face the news  
            That modernism reeks.
Their surge, once bold, has grown so old,
            It’s turned them into freaks.
They’ll throw a fit but won’t admit
            The things their writings lack;
For now their sin has trapped them in
            A one-way cul-de-sac.
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