Tag Archives: Poetry

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The Tiger

When the drums struck

the alarum was the force

of dark eyes bleeding through the shade—

the cold hangs from every leaf,

the brush and stroke teaching

every motion how to breed

claws appropriate to the man-shaped

trails carved into the wood

She parallels without red capes

some wanderer left to packs

shunned for pale skin thickened

behind world-inked fur—

the lines, if only they knew the lines

time had bundled to Her breast

holding in pieces of Her

as She bloodies Herself in details;

haggard is the fall

but sharp the tongue,

curled up the spine as She bends

low, low, savoring the texture

of the wild on Her paws—

low, low are the drums

to the primal song of Her.

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Poetic Measurements

I may have mentioned earlier in the week that the poetic muse was striking me again (it has been some time since our last encounter). Perhaps it’s all the sun, perhaps it was the drama of nature’s power on display a few weeks ago, or simply life being in a sustainable position at the moment. It could also be the steady march the next novel’s taking to completion–got initial edits back from the editor a week or so back, and it has set my creative mind into a furious spiral of scribbles (or his own rather strikingly wonderful bits of poetry he shared with me at the time–mark my words, he’s going places). So much to do.

Regardless of the source though, a frenzy followed, and numerous works were penned this week. So it seemed only good and right to toss out a sample this weekend. Thus I give you the short “Poetic Measurements”…

Poetic Measurements

The weight of a poet

lies perched upon a strand of hair:

a breath could shudder out the shape of it

yet the light could scarcely lay it bare.

Its power crawls in shadow

a textured investigation of the fall

clinging fractions of humanity endow,

wriggling whispers beneath the mortal pall.

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Indecision

Regulation

is far afield of degradation—

any soul what calls them indivisible union

is part and parcel to a different communion—

no, you should not call it vice

if its only purpose is to excise

English: a hand holding unidentified white pills

(Photo Credit: Wikipedia)

because, sweet child, that pill

may look back at you like some foul shill

but if we’re all dying in leagues

that intrigue will only lead to grim fatigue

and in the dying—we’ve all done it—

would you not ask for every trick or wit

in the hopes that one might cry sanctuary

salvation from death’s actuary?

Oh, you’re a noble crusader

you are, you wall, you sacrificial trader

willing to give all for some

but none for your own sum

when it’s a little thing, such little thing

could be the hope for which to sing,

instead participating in a self-castration:

questioning virtues of moderation.

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Is Poetry Dead?

The Seeds and Fruits of English Poetry, oil on...

The Seeds and Fruits of English Poetry, oil on canvas. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let me clarify: it’s not me asking. It’s the Washington Post.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/compost/wp/2013/01/22/is-poetry-dead/

Lord Byron

Is good Lord Byron rolling in his grave even as we speak? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Alexandra Petri, one of the paper’s pundits, investigated the assertion in an article last week (which I just discovered now).  And I quote: “Poets are like the Postal Service — a group of people sedulously doing something that we no longer need, under the misapprehension that they are offering us a vital service.” What’s more, the article goes on to quote playwright Gwydion Suilebhan in delivering the dramatic title of this post: “Poetry is dead. What pretends to be poetry now is either New Age blather or vague nonsense or gibberish. It’s zombie poetry.”

By her own estimation, in fact, there is “no longer, really, any formal innovation possible.”  That world-shaking revelations such as “Howl” or “The Waste Land” are no longer possible in a world where high production movies, video games, and other media are able to do everything the poet can do, but better.

Petri, naturally, was using this as a parallel point to journalism, which if any of you have been following the course of in recent years, is in very dire straits itself. If poetry is dead, then what of journalism?

Personally, I think it is exactly like journalism–in the regards that there will be a struggle for a time, a chaotic crumbling of identity whereby everyone is scrambling to rediscover just what it can be. But is it dead? Will it die? Certainly not. The identity will change. The nature of it will change, and find new ground. But I dare say–nay, I dare hope–this old dose of the literary, stalking us from the very dawning of civilization, is so engrained in us that it could never truly, utterly die.

So poets, journalists, I ask you, what do you think? What are your insights to this, and where do you think things are heading?

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The Bitter-Bitter

Of all the things that earth yet whelps

a spirit stands by wonder of the mass

humanity cycles through the grass;

it springs by blazing lights

onto pavement struck by nights

running roughshod over skin and sin

a dancing has-been formed of thought’s chagrin.

Beneath the wan light, a man does dream of neon exits

too dull to see the dancer’s fed him by the bit,

because oblivion is just another state of mind

a symptom of the daily grind.

 

Across the bar, blue eyes murmur: the bitter helps.

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Stricken

Lately I am stricken

as the plots to dear and mortal earth do thicken—

kneel, kneel lest it all too readily quicken—

for like the desert winds of old Sahara,

it burns to know the subtle motions Terra

should pass me by to other eras.

 

Rage, rage the old man writes

yet dead is light at the sour sight

of youth so bitter cast, paralyzed by fright;

where is devotion to seek out age

where privilege become but flesh and cage,

and still the younger cry: engage, engage.