Apr 2017
the perfect poem* A flawless poem
eats its siblings
did not know this. *a flawless poem
chose to disbelieve. if such there were,
will always be
overconfident. the next one
three years back,
wrote a piece, my poor soul,
called it "flawless," my rag tag heart,
sensing, knowing, has no censor,
that was an, so careless,reckless,
unobtainable condition. as if words were but
frivolous treasures
loved it so, easy spent, easy get
pinned to my chest,
funny, loved me back, if only, how I wish
if ever such thing could harvest my best
could ever be. with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
sumbitch. I know in my possess
knew it but didn't. lay down this hand
so weary
accept there was, from cupping tears,
any itch that couldn't be satisfied at king last
be scratched so much so
into oblivion. that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned
three years back, clutching his best
on top of the world, easing his rest,
chose not to believe a paper record
that life is cyclical, to join his ash,
and i would always. his flawless poem,
have in my posses, at long last
more and more.
perfect poems. 11/13/14
now my poems,
flawed.
like me.
4/8/16
eats its siblings
did not know this. *a flawless poem
chose to disbelieve. if such there were,
will always be
overconfident. the next one
three years back,
wrote a piece, my poor soul,
called it "flawless," my rag tag heart,
sensing, knowing, has no censor,
that was an, so careless,reckless,
unobtainable condition. as if words were but
frivolous treasures
loved it so, easy spent, easy get
pinned to my chest,
funny, loved me back, if only, how I wish
if ever such thing could harvest my best
could ever be. with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
sumbitch. I know in my possess
knew it but didn't. lay down this hand
so weary
accept there was, from cupping tears,
any itch that couldn't be satisfied at king last
be scratched so much so
into oblivion. that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned
three years back, clutching his best
on top of the world, easing his rest,
chose not to believe a paper record
that life is cyclical, to join his ash,
and i would always. his flawless poem,
have in my posses, at long last
more and more.
perfect poems. 11/13/14
now my poems,
flawed.
like me.
4/8/16
The Perfect Poem
by
Kaveh Akbar
In god’s gleaming empire, herds of triceratops
lunge up on their hind legs to somersault
around the plains. The angels lie in the sun
using straight pins to eat hollyhocks. Mostly
they just rub their bellies and hum quietly
to themselves, but the few sentences
they do utter come out as perfect poems.
Here on earth we blather constantly, and
all we say is divided between combat
and seduction. Combat: I understand you perfectly.
Seduction: Next time don’t say so out loud.
Here the perfect poem eats its siblings
in the womb like a sand shark or a star turning
black hole, then saunters into the world
daring us to stay mad. We know most of our
universe is missing. The perfect poem knows
where it went. The perfect poem is no bigger
than a bear. Its birthday hat comes with
a black veil which prattles on and on about
comet ash and the ten thousand buds of
the tongue. Like people and crows, the
perfect poem can remember faces and hold
grudges. It keeps its promises. The perfect
poem is not gold or lead or a garden gate
locked shut or a sail slapping in a storm.
The perfect poem is its own favorite toy.
It is not a state of mind or a kind of doubt
or a good or bad habit or a flower of any
color. It will not be available to answer
questions. The perfect poem is light as dust
on a bat’s wing, lonely as a single flea.
by
Kaveh Akbar
In god’s gleaming empire, herds of triceratops
lunge up on their hind legs to somersault
around the plains. The angels lie in the sun
using straight pins to eat hollyhocks. Mostly
they just rub their bellies and hum quietly
to themselves, but the few sentences
they do utter come out as perfect poems.
Here on earth we blather constantly, and
all we say is divided between combat
and seduction. Combat: I understand you perfectly.
Seduction: Next time don’t say so out loud.
Here the perfect poem eats its siblings
in the womb like a sand shark or a star turning
black hole, then saunters into the world
daring us to stay mad. We know most of our
universe is missing. The perfect poem knows
where it went. The perfect poem is no bigger
than a bear. Its birthday hat comes with
a black veil which prattles on and on about
comet ash and the ten thousand buds of
the tongue. Like people and crows, the
perfect poem can remember faces and hold
grudges. It keeps its promises. The perfect
poem is not gold or lead or a garden gate
locked shut or a sail slapping in a storm.
The perfect poem is its own favorite toy.
It is not a state of mind or a kind of doubt
or a good or bad habit or a flower of any
color. It will not be available to answer
questions. The perfect poem is light as dust
on a bat’s wing, lonely as a single flea.
