No One Writes Epics Anymore

Seriously! Hear me out!

What the hell is wrong with poets today,

Raining down on us with tragedy and sorrow

Or their childhood memories no one asked to hear?

What makes you think I care about your childhood?

I’ve a childhood of my own to dwell upon.

What makes you think I want to hear the tears

You cried when someone didn’t love you back?

Welcome to the real world.

Oh, did that bother you? Now you understand

How I felt when I was told that writing epics

Is like blacksmithing in the present day.

Are our egos so inflated, are we so disrespectful

That we cannot keep the old ways alive

Even a little? Sure, modern poetry is fine,

If you want to feel something you’ll quickly lose.

But if you want to feel what doesn’t fade

Then you may be a child of the older days.

Once upon a time, we had Homer

Who wrote about some liar named Odysseus

Who went places and did things I’ll never do.

Sure, Odysseus is a terrible person,

But let the sinless throw their stones. I’ll wait.

In times romanticized, we had the great Mantuan,

Virgil, and his bloody, boiling tale of Roman pride.

Yet who here, among the poets, has heard

The name Aeneas? It’s a tragedy,

Like a walk through the fires of Hell,

Or maybe Purgatory; but it won’t reach Paradise,

Sort of like Virgil. You know of Dante,

I hope.

There was a time, in the days of my ancestors,

The Geats, the heathen Swedes, singing their praises

To Odin, Raven-father, the ever-watchful one,

When bards shouted “Hwaet!” to herald the glorious coming

Of mighty Beowulf. 

Oh, sing of Beowulf, slayer of Grendel,

Of Grendel’s wicked mother, and of

A mighty dragon, which he struck down

When he was a very old man,

A king, in fact.

I do not worship Odin, but I feel his call,

For, pagan though he be, he’s in my blood.

I am a modern man, but even so,

I read the ancient lines of these great men

And I write because I hear their voices

Commanding me to do it.

I cannot help but  wonder why few since

Have had the entrails to do the same?

We still write about monsters.

We still write about powerful heroes.

We still write about adventures,

All because we believe that the mundane

Is not all there is.

So, brothers, sisters, tell me

Why does no one write epics anymore?

Homer is dead. Virgil is dead. 

Dante is dead. Odin is dead.

And the dignity of men died with them.

The Muses are silent, and long has it been

Since poets’ lips uttered mighty invocations.

Calliope, forgive us, and may God

Have mercy on our boring souls.