The Black and White: What pure delight; Those films of old, These days retold. With less to store, The less breeds more. (Though store too little, The box turns brittle.) We’ve oft this seen, In pastures green, In fields of battle, Where spears rattle. As Jazz came loose, The old, th' obtuse, Seemed too constrained: Scales preordained, The chords too many, Rhythm too uncanny. It coursed to bring Cliché to swing. Away the chords! Harmonious forts. A one-chord piece, Oft nurtures bliss, Given all that space, For dancing grace, To improvise, Less steam franchise. One-actor plays Were norm those days Of Greek playwrights, Of Thracian fights. Yet modern theatre With all the glitter Of lavish cast, The script too vast, Casts wanton drama, Cerebral trauma, Dramatic porn For bards to scorn, Which Lays poetic Would term heretic. For fine art’s sake, Take William Blake. That Dante’s Hell He paints so swell, Ov'rtaxes my Capricious eye. But Botticelli, *His* Alighieri The dream evokes With minimal strokes. (Else I prefer Flaxman to Dore.) Now metered verse: (Here minds disperse) Yet why write five- foot lines contrived, When four will do, Or even two! Or for that matter, Is it not better, When rhythm fails In poor-rhymed tails, To opt for blank - For let’s be frank, Rhyme oft constrains, Attention drains. Or try sometimes Ev'n-numbered rhymes. (It’s often wise To compromise.) But here I’ll stop, Before I flop. Though this I’ll say: Less, More can sway.
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