Post-Post-Modern Poetry
Post-post-modern poetry is about making observations
That aren't interrelated and pretending that they
Have some emotional significance or
Are ironic (or not—irony is slowly falling out of fashion) .
We strip our verses of the ornate,
Of the indulgence, the pretension,
The figurative language,
Reading a string of thoughts as they appear to us
In that given moment,
A moment which is taken from us
As we receive it.
Grandma eats chocolate and sews my mother a doll
That my sister will play with.
My dog is fourteen years old—
I guess he'll die soon.
My dad works at Big Lots.
He loves his job, but my mom says he works too much.
I was going to take another semester of community college,
But my financial aid didn't clear because I've had my
Associate's degree for a year or so now—
I just want to learn, you know?
I don't want to do anything with my life,
Except maybe eat a little, sleep a little,
Play video games and watch movies,
Read a book every week or so,
Listen to as much music as Spotify will let me—
Hey it curbs the urge for me to pirate
The sounds I'd like to hear,
Even if I can't plug them into my car stereo.
I mean, I want to have sex too, of course,
And there's a lot of pretty girls,
And I'm really confident,
But I'm also nervous,
And small talk is pretty boring.
Did Yeats talk like this?
Would Shakespeare understand the poems we write today,
Or would he be like the kids in my high school English Lit classes—
The ones I took for fun, not the AP ones?
I mean, I doubt he'd call himself a "cholo"—
Whatever that is—
Or reference the Latin Kings, but I'm sure he'd have some difficulty
Comprehending the language.
A bad tomato is a bad tomato.
You can no longer eat it.
That sucks.
I just don't know about this.
Do you know about this?
I know a lot about a lot of things,
But that doesn't mean I know anything.
This sounds like something I could write
When I was twelve.
Will it get me published?
Will it get me a job?
Will it get me money,
So I can eat food with feeling guilty
About using my debit card as a credit?
I don't feel guilty,
But I'm feeling as blue as agave,
Which isn't very blue now,
Is it?
And I just don't know what I'm saying,
But help, by the Gods, pumpernickel orange rinds
Crumple on the sagging polyphone around your dog's neck
And the cats are cradling violins in their violet yaps,
Mellowing the evening sky,
And trimming the headlines
That we never heard on the evening news.
I just don't understand.
I just don't.
Do you?
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Related quotes
Authorship
You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Will I Still Write Poems When I Can No Longer Publish Or Post Them?
Will I still write poems when I can no longer publish or post them?
Of course I will-
I wrote poetry for years
when I knew their only readers were hoped- for ones-
I will write my poems
because they are my soul
my confessiion
my expression of deepest feeling
because they give meaning to my life-
I will write poemw as long as I can-
publish or post or not-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My Poems Came Back To Me / As Rhythms Without Sounds
My poems came back to me
as rhythms without sounds
Imitations of anothers music
Falling down and down
Like winter snow
To whitening ground-
My poems came back to me
As distant whispers of other destinies
Flights from deeper spaces
Mankind has not yet surmised
They were somewhere in the distance of distance
Beyond all distance
In the mystical language
Only Wisdom heard
Though it had no words of its own-
Only ‘now’ and ‘more’ and ‘dreams of another century’
And I, I with all these confusing words
Wondering if my friend would ever be sane again
And why God does it this way
While I in my writing play and play again
Bringing my own rhythms back
And making poetry my own small happy game
Which I write and I write
Without memory.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Croquet by Moonlight
On a moonlight evening, in the month of May,
A number of young people were playing at croquet,
They mingled together, the bashful with the gay,
And had a pleasant time and chat, while playing at croquet.
CHORUS:
This play they call croquet, croquet,
This play they call croquet,
It is amusement for the young,
This play they call croquet.
On that pleasant evening, the moon shone clear and bright,
And every heart among that crowd was filed with great delight.
It was a merry party, for lady Dell was there
Her merry laugh above the rest was heard by all, so fair.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
She was the belle that evening, admired by great and small,
And all the boys liked to play with the girl and blue ball.
She was a splendid player, so lively and so gay,
For she was skilled in playing that pleasant game croquet.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
Two young men among them, that loved this pretty Dell;
Although I write about them, their names I will not tell.
They were fine young fellows, so bashful, and yet so gay;
They tried to beat the girl that with the blue ball play.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
Ah! with those handsome fellows, Dell thought she'd have some fun,
"The one of you that'll catch me, may see me safely home."
The play began in earnest, between those fine young men,
To catch the girl with the blue ball, was impossible for them.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
She went around the play-ground, so full of life and gay,
She left them at the farther arch, so she beat them at croquet.
It was late that evening, and as I went away,
I know not how they came out, in that pleasant game, croquet.
CHORUS: This play, etc.
So croquet by moonlight is pleasant, as you see,
For business cares were laid aside, in that little company.
So playing at croquet, croquet, so playing at croquet,
It is amusement for the young folks, this play of croquet.
poem by Julia A Moore
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College
It's something new, excited and different to look forward
This is what I been waiting for
It's where dreams begin
College
Help me prepared for life, but my high school didn't
It changes my life in so many ways
I feel confidence, happier, and independent
I doing one thing I love the most, and it's going to culinary school
I learn so much in one semester already
The teachers want me to success in life and help me so much
It's hard to catch up
The feeling I can't even describes when I first came to this
College
It's fit my schedules and my classes is only couple days a week
I can take morning, afternoon, or night classes
I am doing this for myself, my life, dreams, hope and becoming adult
I hope you enjoy it like I did one day
College
poem by Christina Phan
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The Language I Feel Most At Home In
THE LANGUAGE I FEEL MOST AT HOME IN
The language I feel most at home in
Is not my own.
My own sacred language
Is my second best.
English is too great for me
And I am not like Joyce
Able to contend with and transcend it –
I write my small lines in the language
Shakespeare is the glass of fashion and the mould of form of –
I one more minor actor in a cast of many millions
Play my words upon the page as best I can.
But why mind and remember me and mine
When there are so many and so so much far greater?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Australian Slanguage
"Tis the everyday Australian
Has a language of his own,
Has a language, or a slanguage,
Which can simply stand alone.
And a "dickon pitch to kid us"
Is a synonym for "lie",
And to "nark it" means to stop it,
And to "nit it" means to fly.
And a bosom friend's a "cobber,"
And a horse a "prad" or "moke,"
While a casual acquaintance
Is a "joker" or a "bloke."
And his lady-love's his "donah"
or his "clinah" or his "tart"
Or his "little bit o' muslin,"
As it used to be his "bart."
And his naming of the coinage
Is a mystery to some,
With his "quid" and "half-a-caser"
And his "deener" and his "scrum".
And a "tin-back" is a party
Who's remarkable for luck,
And his food is called his "tucker"
Or his "panem" or his "chuck".
A policeman is a "johnny"
Or a "copman" or a "trap",
And a thing obtained on credit
Is invariably "strap".
A conviction"s known as "trouble",
And a gaol is called a "jug",
And a sharper is a "spieler"
And a simpleton's a "tug".
If he hits a man in fighting
That is what he calls a "plug",
If he borrows money from you
He will say he "bit your lug."
And to "shake it" is to steal it,
And to "strike it" is to beg;
And a jest is "poking borac",
And a jester "pulls your leg".
Things are "cronk" when they go wrongly
In the language of the "push",
But when things go as he wants 'em
He declares it is "all cush".
When he's bright he's got a "napper",
And he's "ratty" when he's daft,
And when looking for employment
He is "out o' blooming graft".
And his clothes he calls his "clobber"
Or his "togs", but what of that
When a "castor" or a "kady"
Is the name he gives his hat!
And our undiluted English
Is a fad to which we cling,
But the great Australian slanguage
Is a truly awful thing!
poem by William Thomas Goodge
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Theme for English B
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
poem by Langston Hughes
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Try to Understand Me Too (Autism)
Today might not be my day,
You might understand what I want to say.
There are times that I want to wave my hand,
And you might think it is something that I am trying to demand.
Can you hear the soun
ds as I pound my feet,
Well maybe not, but all I am doing is trying to sound a beat.
Do you remember when I read the book with you?
It was about the ghost and you made me laugh when you said BOO.
I love to hear it when we whisper and shout Lullabies, songs and rhymes,
To me I wonder, if they can hear us while we do this during school time.
This is one reason why I always say things over and over again,
And when you try to stop me, I get mad every now and then.
I only wish I can understand everything that I'm being told,
But to me it feels like I am always being controlled.
Can you remember when you asked the class a question and I wanted to answer it when was not my turn,
All I am just trying to do is show you that I can remember things that I learn.
I try to understand why I get so mad and I cannot control myself and I hurt you,
When I think about it I get sad and cry because I wish someone could, Try to Understand Me Too.
I wish the other kids would let me play,
If they took the time to talk to me, they might understand things my way,
I also love it when you want to teach me how to pray,
And you ask the Lord to help thru this day,
I know that you understand me and even, if no one ever wants to even take a guess,
So, this is my ways of saying thank you and telling you that I will always try and do my best.
poem by Frank Pulver
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Technophobia
What has technology done for me?
Well, for one—
It's made me unnecessarily happy,
But I'm very grateful for it.
I mean, my whole life has followed me on the computer,
Transposed to a screen—
The human condition to me, my experience,
Resides more inside a TV than the world
Outside
My window.
When I was a little kid,
I never played any sports and I never had any interest in them
Until I played Madden 2007
With a few of my friends.
I was already an adult at this point,
But, for a moment,
I returned to that feeling,
That kind of feeling that makes me nostalgic now,
And I enjoyed myself,
Learning something new for the first time.
I think it had such an impact on me because
I didn't go outside much when I was younger.
I probably had a vitamin D deficiency.
But what could I do?
After I was twelve or something,
All the kids were playing Pokemon,
Trading the cards under the table
Sort of like the way that pizza place
I once worked for
Traded illegal Mexican cooks
(no racial offense, of course—
Those were the good people
At the job) .
Like a junkie, I couldn't help, but engage in the same elicit activities.
I couldn't help being hooked, even after half my friends stopped
Caring about what holofoils they could collect at the comic book store.
Man, those kids never even played the game though.
I played.
I loved it.
I mean, I played the card game and the video game.
I was raised on video games, after all.
Super Mario was like a second father to me.
I beat SMB1 when I was three years old.
Three years old, I tell you.
Before kindergarten,
My biggest concern was
Pursuing the highest score
Available to my abilities—
Which quickly, quickly, quickly, quickly, quickly blasted past my parents,
As if I was an Excite Bike moving too steadily for the looping 8-bit images
To catch up—
In things such as Centipede
Or Tetris—
Or all the games that were in that rare,
Import Japanese Famicom cartridge
My family somehow acquired
(It had over 300 games
And an English convertor
And I played it
Every, every day) .
I didn't really go outside.
I didn't really spend a lot of time with other kids,
But it wasn't a problem.
I liked cartoons too.
I deified the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
Made a shrine for them in my room—
It resembled a Hindu temple, in a way,
With all my personified
Animal figurines.
Similar to Zen Buddhists,
Who use a wide-array of terminology
(Something I'm now incorporating…
Words such as satori) ,
I picked up their lexicon,
And used words like cowabunga
On a regular basis.
Maybe that's why I didn't have many friends.
I still play video games.
I still watch cartoons.
Not on television though—
I have them set up as files in my computer.
Nowadays, I have friends, but I feel like half of them have
A similar functionality as the games.
I talk to them through the internet,
Interacting through the depression
Of buttons,
Interfacing through the clicks
On a keyboard
When I don't often see their face.
Sometimes I share my thoughts, so people
Can click on the blue-text link that says
‘Like' underneath it,
And, sometimes, I don't even respond to the comments
Because I was misinterpreted—
Sarcasm doesn't translate, I suppose,
Especially when I type acronyms like ‘YOLO; '
I hope people realize I only type it
Because others type it
And, because, so many others type it,
I find it as annoying
As the people that are complaining to me
Do… So why do they complain to me?
(I thought the stupid hipsters liked irony—
I know a lot of stupid hipsters…
You can tell a stupid hipster
Because a stupid hipster
Will label who they are
As a hipster…
And they try to wear clothes
That remind me of Where's Waldo,
Except, man,
These kids are too easy to find) .
The more exposed to people I am,
The more I complain about them,
And I'm always connected now,
So I guess it makes me feel more
Isolated.
I just wish sometimes
That we didn't have to plug our minds in
To get them to function,
That we didn't have Google
To type in the thoughts
We keep forgetting,
Recovering them for a moment or two
Before the white space of a screen
Washes over,
Wiping the trivia back to the bottom
Of a search engine's ocean
Of information.
I'm too obsessed with scatological observations,
Wondering what people think
So I can justify my own thoughts
And get to know people
I don't think I ever wanted to know.
Sometimes I want to be left alone
Or left in the mystery that used to shroud
The people I talked to.
I didn't know what they were thinking back then.
I didn't know and I was trying to figure it out.
Now that I DO know,
I'm not sure it's useful.
I mean,
I'm always going over all these useless facts,
And I'm curious if people realize
That nobody really cares what anybody else says,
That we're all fame-starved miscreants,
Thirsting for narcissism
Because it leads to hedonism,
And, man, all anybody wants nowadays
Is to blow their money and look cool doing it.
Technology shows me this,
But I'd rather it show me another Madden 2007,
So that I could appreciate the games people play
OR the games they watch—
My entire life I've appreciated games,
Even if they kept me away from socialization
(Perhaps a good thing)
And kept me indoors,
Though now I also appreciate
The sun.
What has technology done for me?
Well, for one—
It gave me a childhood.
Well, for two—
It gave me adulthood,
And an understanding I never wanted in the first place.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Mi Piedra Sepulchral
I do not write for financial gain.
I write because my poetry
may produce more than a tombstone fame.
Rather than a "b" and "d",
my poetry may better preserve my name.
It also means my creative juices flow
giving me, and I hope you, a memorable glow.
"What is your poetry about?" they ask of me.
It is about what I hear, feel and see.
It is my religion, existence and philosophy.
It is spontaneous and none is fictitious.
Distilled to its essence,
I am my poetry; My poetry is me.
poem by Nile B. Norton
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At play
Play that you are mother dear,
And play that papa is your beau;
Play that we sit in the corner here,
Just as we used to, long ago.
Playing so, we lovers two
Are just as happy as we can be,
And I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
"I love you" we both shall say,
All in earnest and all in play.
Or, play that you are that other one
That some time came, and went away;
And play that the light of years agone
Stole into my heart again to-day!
Playing that you are the one I knew
In the days that never again may be,
I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
I love you!" my heart shall say
To the ghost of the past come back to-day!
Or, play that you sought this nestling-place
For your own sweet self, with that dual guise
Of your pretty mother in your face
And the look of that other in your eyes!
So the dear old loves shall live anew
As I hold my darling on my knee,
And I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
Oh, many a strange, true thing we say
And do when we pretend to play!
poem by Eugene Field
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Dear Candice,
If you can't sleep:
*
Make your bedroom more comfortable, keep it cool and quiet.
*
Get up and do something else. Then, go back to bed.
*
Drink warm milk or hot water before you go to bed.
*
Take a warm bath, read a little or listen to some quiet music in the evening.
*
Get fresh air and exercise during the day, but remember: exercise before bed can keep you awake.
*
Go to bed and get up at the same time every day.
*
Don't take naps during the day.
*
Avoid coffee, tea or soft drinks after 5 p.m.
*
Don't smoke or drink alcohol in the evening—it can keep you awake.
*
Don't eat spicy food in the evening.
If you often wake up during the night to go to the bathroom and can't get back to sleep, try not to drink very much before you go to bed.
But remember: if you need to take medication at bedtime, it is best to take pills with a full glass of water.
If you feel lonely:
You can spend time with other people by:
* Becoming a volunteer at your local school, hospital, church or community centre.
* Joining a seniors' club at your local church or community centre.
* Taking a course at your local school or community centre and learning a new activity.
You can also call and talk to a different friend or family member every day. You may want to write a short letter to a friend or family member who lives far away. Sometimes, just writing to someone can help you feel that this person is with you.
If you feel anxious, tense or worried:
* Try to relax by breathing slowly and deeply.
* Take a walk.
* Choose an activity you really enjoy doing, like listening to your favourite music, and do it.
* Tell a friend, family member or your doctor how you feel.
* Join a support group so that you can talk more about your anxious feelings.
* Take a relaxation or exercise class, like yoga, at your local school or community centre.
* Take a course and learn how to do an activity, like needlework or woodworking, at your local community or seniors' centre.
For more information, please contact:
ariel escalona, the sleep expert...(ha ha ha)
your friend,
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Big Tomato Meets Big Toe
Little did Big Tomato know,
she would meet Mr. Big Toe.
She did not know that Big Toe
had a radio show.
The radio show was called
“Big Toe Wants To Know”
Big Tomato walked through the door, ,
knowing she had an interview at 4.
Waiting in the lobby remembering what to say,
she bumped into doll Melodie Mezoree’.
“Wow, it’s Melodie Mezoree’ how are you today? ”
“Oh great nice to see you Big Tomato,
I was just on the radio show! ”
Big Tomato replied, “I will talk about how I can fly-
how I can fly way up in the sky.”
Then Big Toe walked in,
he was happy to see Big Tomato with a grin.
Both of them shook hands,
and Big Tomato talked and sang,
on the mic behind the stand.
It was Big Tomato’s big day,
every child listened to what she had to say.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Big Tomato Meets Big Toe
Little did Big Tomato know,
she would meet Mr. Big Toe.
She did not know that Big Toe
had a radio show.
The radio show was called
“Big Toe Wants To Know”
Big Tomato walked through the door, ,
knowing she had an interview at 4.
Waiting in the lobby remembering what to say,
she bumped into doll Melodie Mezoree’.
“Wow, it’s Melodie Mezoree’ how are you today? ”
“Oh great nice to see you Big Tomato,
I was just on the radio show! ”
Big Tomato replied, “I will talk about how I can fly-
how I can fly way up in the sky.”
Then Big Toe walked in,
he was happy to see Big Tomato with a grin.
Both of them shook hands,
and Big Tomato talked and sang,
on the mic behind the stand.
It was Big Tomato’s big day,
every child listened to what she had to say.
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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The empty evenings are the most difficult (in answer to Mandi Engelbrecht)
The empty evenings are the most difficult
when alone I write poems,
when I sometimes listen to Classic Fm
while I have got nothing to do,
the two old people
go to bed when darkness comes
and we say our prayers,
at times they insist
that I watch a religious DVD with them
and they talk about the news
and newspaper reports
but much too soon the evening is past
and the cocker spaniel
looks at me with her dark eyes
while the Persian cat goes outside to hunt,
and I read poems of some English friends
one after the other.
I am still searching for a job
which circles out wider,
almost away from me
while I spent my spare time
on what I can find in the library
on poetry of some great poets,
to teach myself techniques, methods, style,
and to find ideas
and it's as if the wide world
waits upon my new poems
and sometimes I mow the lawn,
and help here and there in the garden,
see the flock of sparrows,
weavers and doves coming near,
and I dare poems to repair my country,
my world, to tell people
who can make a difference
about the things happening here
and my days and nights are empty without you
but our relationship went to hell
by your own choice
and I have got a new mistress
whose name is poetry
and she is a whimsical lover
who serves others much better
before she visits me at night,
to share my pain, my sorrow and memories
and most of the time I try to know her better,
to know the rhythm, the methods of her existence,
to find that which makes her great
and one after the other my days pass,
while I wonder when things are going to change,
while I try day after day to survive
and I know that I cannot hold on to the past
and I know
that I can write almost any kind of poem
and still at times I wonder
what is happening far away in your world?
[Reference: "‘n dood gewone vrou" (an ordinary woman) by Mandi Engelbrecht.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Home Alone Happy Without Working Computer
Home alone happy without working computer
I take my pen in hand
And slowly write these words –
Let the world click and paste and post
I am out of it for now-
I have before me an evening of any book I like
Of any page I want to write
-
Peace of Mind is one place of attention at a time-
Here weighing each word as I write
I am at home with my inner self-
I hear my own thoughts
I correct them at my own pace.
So many words and so many pages
Have been written in my life-
Now in this one
I am wholly at home
Peaceful, quiet happy
Each word a small blessing
As I write it-
This is the only poem I know
The only page I see
The only place of attention
I give myself and my soul to
At this moment.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
poem by Frank O'Hara
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What Is This Feeling?
What is this feeling?
I look up to your eyes,
Oh! cant hold your gaze,
And when you look away
I search in them
Remnants of my blurred image!
What is this feeling?
I listen to your voice,
Something in me gives way
But all I do is
Talk nonsense with you
feeling happy and gay!
What is this feeling?
I go thinking,
Its just you!
All day long,
And when I meet you
Either you donot understand
Or I fail to convey,
Is it right or
with "us'
Something pretty wrong is going on! !
What is this feeling?
Just the thought of your touch
Releases in me
Trillions of those
Unknown, unsaid cravings
In desire of a forbidden game,
And minutes later,
I go blue
In guilt and shame! !
What is this feeling?
An illusion?
Is it for real?
Or is a delusion
Like those thousand nameless dreams?
But you are real
Flesh and blood
And so am i.
Yet, I go on guessing….
all along.
What is this feeling? ? ? ?
poem by Anjali Kakati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Post-Modern Poetry
The post-modern poem is the poet's surprise-
It has no agenda but its own interpretation-
It reads the ‘expressive I' as an infinite longing of the soul
To know and be known-
It writes out of many different places
But finds it difficult to call one its home-
It has many names and voices
But none speaks with an authoritative rhythm -
It is only its own alone home
And so I writing it know
It will not be found in me by those who write it as their own-
Chaos, perhaps, is its signature,
And loss of all the ancient rhythms and forms-
It wants to wander where it will as it does -
But I, I thinking back to what we were
And remembering years of reading others
Know too its voices are many even within the single self-
There is no ‘modern' anymore and no ‘post- modern' either
In the age where everything is accessible
And all is easily found and communicated
The single soul's signature cannot mean a name is real -
Only where all effort is and fails
Only where nobody really is
Only where many write and no one can really read
Perhaps beyond this
Beyond post- modern poetry
This poem too will teach Poetry how to live.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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