Lament from a Reader of "Salient" to the Literary Editor

How canst thou still endure (pray is't from apathy or fear?)
This mockery of poetry' graced not with form nor rhyme,
Amorphous crass absurdity, all meaningless and queer;
O foolish Ed, why bother? Dost thou waste thy precious time?
Inform me, dost thou think they're Esoteric, who thus write?
Sophisticated, avant-garde, with high-developed mind?
Dost thou see sensitivity and Intellectual Height?
(Or art thou, too, an 'arty' sham—the self-deluded kind?)
Think'st thou that men with such 'poetic' gifts surpass the need
To exercise some discipline, lest they might quench them dead?
Lest thou shouldst print mere doggerel, hast thou retrenched indeed,
So much that now thou publishest mere gobblegook instead?
May one less gifted philistine put forth an humble plea
For greater artistry in style; in thought a mere rebirth?
For poetry of finer taste and less obscurity,
The better to communicate ideas of solid worth?

J.C.B.