For Mark Andrew Hislop
I’m ninety, European nobleman,
Patron of art, made Knight of the Sublime,
High bred, Queen suckled, bred to understand
From tragedies of Kings, in Marlowe’s mighty line.
The King, my father, would tell me of the smell
Of a world lit by lamps; he recited Odes
By poets writ on sheets, perusing his urns
On loan, and given with a kissing of his hand.
But now High Art’s been Twitterized.
We write for Peers unborn: do not succumb to Time.
Reclaim the Heights, the High and Ancient Art,
The worthy subject! The battle’s more than Rime.
They call it Ars Povera, but it should not be
Concern of peasants, back scratching on a tree.