--- a repost, I somehow deleted it this afternoon
Oh what blind hex has come forth to lobotomize tiny
shanty towns and the ignoble monstrosity
of twin towers falling and the blueprint
of human anxiety?
What cursed anvil has been draped around the neck
of Coleridge in his opium poetic nirvana,
his fingers raw and scratching at the stones
placed before his romantic eyes?
Poesy shudders behind barricades of pompous
ne’er do wells, chickadees abort the half frozen eggs
of unnatural machinery . . .
Ah, and as I sit here this night, surrounded by
the abolition of my incensed reveries,
distracted inside a black hole of callus calamity,
I reach for the ink well of unholy anger
with my oh so blemished pen.
Oh fathers of confederation, I do not desire
to swallow up a computer chip that lodges
on the left ventricle of my heart.
This country that I live and breathe in,
once applauded for its non confrontational stance,
now blistering Afghanistan with American inspired hostility.
Where has gone the passive silver lined face of an old
woman who blesses grandchildren and the sunflowers
that line the cracked ache of city sidewalks,
where be the symmetry of the dawn loon’s call,
the beatific beauty of a sunrise on the pacific ocean,
the forest’s haunting music played upon rudimentary
instruments by the hidden ones?
Now, careening concrete and metallic mechanisms
clutter up my eyes and I am left stranded
like an orphaned magpie out in the cold.
Thus, my voice, in all its disgruntled anxiety
addresses you oh prototype of destructive
depravation.
My mind contains the poetry of African flowers,
the delicate wink of a swan’s eye, but I find myself
locked inside a poet’s purgatory with Artaud
and the suicidal ravings of Mayakovsky . . .
No peaceful reverberations of Xanadu, no nirvanic
whispers culled from Buddha mind, just rambling
rhetorical resurrections that curse the rank and file
of my numb minded species.
So poets arise from the ashes of Nagasaki and Vietnam,
from the heart breaking cartoon that is Iraq
and the starving nations governed by despots
and tongueless proprietors of political pablum . . .
Arise and scream your verdant vernacular out across
the airwaves, out across cyberspace
and the television screens of the universe . . .
because nothing will ever change if you don’t.
A contest entry
- National Poetry Day by cricketjeff.
1500 points, ended October 12, 2008, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - CELEBRATING POETRY AND POETS- ONE-DAY competition, "PREVIOUSLY WRITTEN" WORK ONLY by Vera Rich.
6000 points, ended November 26, 2008, 127 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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Well, I am pleased to see that someone who was celebrating the new so-called "National Poetry Day" in October, also wished to celebrate the traditional feastday of English Poetry, St Hilda's Day, 17 November! This goes straight on to my short list, for when I come to make my final assessment of this competition - which I hope will be within the next 24 hours!
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Your poetry always provides an interesting array of thoughts and images and I am always happy to read it
Thank-you for the entry.
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Great write
You write so well using hard mad images, then to break up the mad anger you pen something a little soothing, Just when the reader thinks the assulted pshici will heal you rip it open again to make it cry then leave it open it will heal and form a calused scar. Great and Powerfull at least that is what I walk away from this poem feeling. "Orphan magpie out in the cold" this could be a child who lost their parents or an adopted child whos mother put them up for adoption. "Haunting music played on rudimentry instruments by the hidden ones." That line I see a quiet forest and listening to natures sound being "played by the hidden ones" I see wood sprite and farey playing their instruments to make the sounds of nature, There is so much more I can see in this write I would pen a book of my thoughts and interpitation of this write.
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Hey, you really got this one! The hidden ones are exactly as you describe them . . .
Marc
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" I reach for the inkwell of unholy anger" I hear your call for poets to pen and address the nemesis that attempts to mute and only commute their left, right,left trains of thought, when I wonder what poets will do when they run out of ink I am sidetracked, stationed at the platform that leaves us on this brink, we can't afford any more mistakes yet, yet we can at least choose not to be concerened and to think.I fear that if poets collectively screamed then those in power would simply switch off the electricity. As always Marc, you write with passion and pleas that are heard but those that could effect a change choose not to be listening...
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You are probably right Yvette . . . they probably would turn off the switch . . . I recall the authorities arresting Ginsberg when he read his Pleutonium Ode outside of a plant somewhere in the States . . . Hopefully, eventually somebody with a few brains and a social conscious will begin to listen . . . ya, all we can do is hope . . .
Marc
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I think that there are some of the new generation who will see and truly want change, are they as strong as those of the 60's and 70's? I am not sure, we didn't have the designer fixations or drugs or emotional stuff that they deal with today lol or maybe we did but chose to overlook it and see the bigger picture, but I still see pockets of the young ones who do see the big side and hopefully more will continue to. Rebellion always takes time to mount
C
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God, I sure hope you are right . . . first on the pockets of the youth you mention and secondly with regards to the time it may take for them to collectively see . . . Hopefully it will not take a human tragedy to awaken them, because if that happens to be the case I'm afraid we may be in for a violent explosion of emotion and desperate anger and not all from the youth.
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Because Nothing Will Change If You Don't
Powerful, with keen eyes to shift away the pretty packages atop and pull from waste the truth and how easily blinded we can become. Brilliant write.
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Ya Lady L . . . but we gotta wake up . . . it alarms me to think of what could happen in your country . . . The streets are beginning to boil again, there were demonstrations at both conventions and I worry deeply about the possiblity of another assassination, GOD FORBID!!
take gentle care of yourself,
an aging rebel from the North Country
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"once applauded for its non confrontational stance,
now blistering Afghanistan with American inspired hostility"
I LOVE these poems of yours. YOU are inspiring. I only wish that every ear could be graced with your words
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Well, like I said to Lady Lavender . . . we have to awaken from our slumber and speak,shout out . . . because if we do not cease blinking from our complacent beds, all hells libel break loose . . .
Marc
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mine is a muted tongue now.
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