Modern poetry tends to be either sterile and ugly, or intentionally obtuse and incomprehensible.

How many times have you read a contemporary poem and thought, I could have written that shit, but why would I want to? It’s like modern art which looks down on images which are merely representational.

Seamus Heaney is one I like, though.

(This is posted on the Nobel Laureates site.)

The Haw Lantern

The wintry haw is burning out of season,
crab of the thorn, a small light for small people,
wanting no more from them but that they keep
the wick of self-respect from dying out,
not having to blind them with illumination.

But sometimes when your breath plumes in the frost
it takes the roaming shape of Diogenes
with his lantern, seeking one just man;
so you end up scrutinized from behind the haw
he holds up at eye-level on its twig,
and you flinch before its bonded pith and stone,
its blood-prick that you wish would test and clear you,
its pecked-at ripeness that scans you, then moves on.

By Seamus Heaney
From “The Haw Lantern”, 1987

i suppose i’ll come to like the new format, like i did with ebaumsworld. but for now i am a bit reluctant. i guess i’d better get used to it. wordup.