On the Modern Poetry-Bird

in answer to questions put by some poets met
in Calcutta on the state of poetry in England

Where is it, the singing art?
smeared with the obscene, absurd:
save it from the rubbish-cart.

Once a voice to soar, swoop, dart:
now a disenchanted bird.
Where is it, the singing art?

It miserably hops apart –
an oddity where Nature’s erred.
Save it from the rubbish-cart.

It gasps, it croaks its tedious part:
“s-something evil has occurred.”
Where is it, the singing art?

If just a few who write would start
to free the caged thing! and so stirred,
save it from the rubbish-cart.

Indian poets, use the heart.
Use the heart to find the word.
Where is it, the singing art?
Save it from the rubbish-cart.