Dead Poetry

“Art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds it hostage.” - Adrienne Rich

We don’t recall today
the verse of Jessie Pope
and others down their way,
the propagandists whose rope
has been tightened by time,
allowing Owens and Sassoons
to take their place in rhyme.
The Popes of art now seem buffoons
for cheerleading the First World War,
as dead boys wet the killing floor.

This is the essence of bad art,
the lecturer concludes,
returning Pope to their ignoble place.
The vast expanding library zips by
the uni class in their flying classroom,
the signage explaining that this
is “Dead Poetry, summer 3094”.