Insincerity is just one of the crimes of which my dear wife accuses my friend the poet Derydaripov. He flits between styles and ideas, she argues, with little or no respect for their origins. He is, she thinks, the archetypal flibbertigibbet; essentially unable to come up with an original thought and constantly trading off the work of others. His work is no more than a parody of poetry: it has no style of its own – and is, at bottom, emotionally and intellectuality redundant.
Harsh words for the man who wrote these very lines:
When doth a dusty wren admit
that it’s no better than a tit?
Or, beak beneath a feather, curse
the fact that it may be much worse?
Come forth dear wren: confess! confess!
Your wing’s all wrong, your nest’s a mess!
(Brszny Derydaripov, When Doth a Dusty Wren, 2009)