"malls" poems - Hello Poetry

By now,the seed varieties of the world, may have been attacked beyond recovery by wars of pretense and relapses. We are still learning how to handle it properly. We tend to say. Some will talk and plan over dinner parties, over TV or Radio. Most will leave it behind like another corpse of lessons thrown to the gutter, like a dead *** on another Sunset Boulevard. Iraq's seed banks we blew up in the 2000s. In various places in Asia and the Middle East, places of life and cultured varieties gone in an instant. Echoing our imprisoned ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services. Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant to sell poison seeds and renewed bondages of indebtedness. One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour was not what their poetry or books were about, nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now? Once agricultural lands turn into new promises of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia feeds us back our own echo. Like converted uses of lands, our humanity is converted into inanimate collections and status symbols of some players or parties. As we face our continuing struggle between our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots. Despite the perversions, inside vicious habits of waste where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies, we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons: Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases, throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed. Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges, gains and losses, stopping and going. This time, not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses, but for each other's midnight lamps.#

0

Sep 3, 2018

Sep 3, 2018 at 12:42 AM UTC

kryselanson

BURIED

By now,the seed varieties of the world, may have been attacked beyond recovery by wars of pretense and relapses. We are still learning how to handle it properly. We tend to say. Some will talk and plan over dinner parties, over TV or Radio. Most will leave it behind like another corpse of lessons thrown to the gutter, like a dead *** on another Sunset Boulevard. Iraq's seed banks we blew up in the 2000s. In various places in Asia and the Middle East, places of life and cultured varieties gone in an instant. Echoing our imprisoned ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services. Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant to sell poison seeds and renewed bondages of indebtedness. One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour was not what their poetry or books were about, nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now? Once agricultural lands turn into new promises of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia feeds us back our own echo. Like converted uses of lands, our humanity is converted into inanimate collections and status symbols of some players or parties. As we face our continuing struggle between our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots. Despite the perversions, inside vicious habits of waste where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies, we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons: Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases, throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed. Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges, gains and losses, stopping and going. This time, not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses, but for each other's midnight lamps.#