He leans too much upon the crutch
Of his guitar. Dylan still won
A Nobel prize, decades after
Robert Lowell died. Nonetheless,
However snooty, Lowell had
A point. Poetry without song,
Without accompanying tunes
Carried by well-played instruments,
Not even phrased to be chanted,
Has set itself a handicap.
There’s something thrilling to the work
Of making words move on their own,
Of letting them lurch for themselves,
Readers’ memories for crutches,
Imagining any guitars
The words may mention, pretending
Guitars you recall will strike chords.
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