"unimaginative" poems
*The wilderness is the blank space
Where the minds can roam free
A canvas for us to paint our imagination
Happy minds devoid of any anxiety
Fresh breath of life in the empty space
Where do we take refuge if destroyed?
Wilderness is the bank space to treasure
Explore and find all the answers
For the unimaginative they have no relevance
Among the wilderness we embrace life*
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
When, instead of cozying in bed
I wander out there with Kerouac,
Imagining that I am Kerouac
Or some slave who walks upright;
Or a priest without a crowd
With hands and feet tied.
When, instead of snoring like hell,
I am left unimaginative by some;
I am making disgusting Love with shadows unknown
And remain pinned against the wall.
I am some nine year old senile who wets her bed
in fear and disbelief.
Lights flicker and then fade
And the switch becomes a button pressed to send
Someone in raving comfort.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
Even when night becomes noon.
Nightmares haunt me no more but I
Am left haunted by my bed.
Sheets crumpled by tossing and turning.
My bed does not recognize my warmth.
Voice recordings and constant tweetings
Pump blood to my Über active head.
Sleepless nights are well received as my body
Succumbs to sleep.
I live in a different world with five hundred other names
And the ten thousand other Me’s are all in disarray.
(And when the clock chimes at one, two, three ‘til way down six,
There’s a carnival of sorts with hair strands flailing like
Seven sets of arms.)
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And wetting my bed is not a Sin.
I am sinful beyond recognition, as my bed is my witness.
I have had different beds
But to me, they’re all the same.
Some, soft; others, too hard
Or covered in satin, exaggerated by the moonlight. Some, made of wood
While others, with tight springs.
Water’s absurd but so is steel.
Double padding, triple linings, four feet, at times, none;
There’s the car, the guest room, the floor, hospital bed,
A seat next to a complete stranger ---
I make my bed before sleeping
And leave it when I’m done.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And I jump on the bed at midnight.
I am not a stranger to morning tides and the morning shows on TV.
I’m not a stranger at all, no,
And when I sleep, I sleep in peace.
Stranger things have happened
Noons and sudden weekends are no way sleep - inducing; I am left believing
That nights and days dance in my
Sleeplessness.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
Conjunction:
a small class of words distinguished in many languages by their function as connectors between words, phrases, clauses, sentences
- the act of conjoining; combination; the state of being conjoined; union; association:
- a compound proposition that is true if and only if all of its component propositions are true.
- the coincidence of two or more heavenly bodies at the same celestial longitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am in a relationship.
a colorless word
a word of no clarity
a good one? a bad one?
a professional deal,
or one that makes you squeal
with pleasure or despair
without context or content,
a description of a status,
not a state,
but a quid pro quo
I prefer
I am in a conjunction
*well recall the day
our orbits
more than crossed,
but synchronized,
when two bodies
began to travel
upon the same longitude
one direction
in conjunction
t'was the day we coordinated
on our mobile phone,
co-configured our future,
our calendars*
*nowadays,
I answer her questions
while she is commencing to think,
when her foolishness prevails,
she questions, "did you remember to..."
my answer, a question returned,
connected, constant and conjunctive,*
"and what's my name?"
an answer conveying constancy
*relationship
oft the farthest place from logical,
but you know that,
say I am in a conjunction
and the logicians will celebrate
the end of your lonely celibacy,
well they understand the truth
inherent in and of and about
your compounded proposition*
*what unimaginative creatures we be,
dispensing with beauty for factuality,
but facts are easily misread,
your fact and my fact, relationship,
the exact same fact, conveys neither
an agreement as to what that means
are we unionized, associated, or conjoined
what is the quality of
our related ships?*
so
Dear Mr. Zuckerberg,
amend my status please,
post me
as being in a state of:
a) conductivity b) connectivity c) concoctive
no, none of those
capture
what we have
captured,
so let create a new state,
a new world,
using a very old world word
post us as follows,
"Nat is in a conjunction"
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
"Where's the *** gone?"
"I've got a jar of dirt!"
"So you are all going to fight them, and you are all going to fight them all on the account of him wanting to **** him?"
"Jack. Where's Elizabeth."
"She's safe, just like I promised. She's all set to marry Norrington, just like she promised. And you get to die for it just like you promised. So we're all men of our word, really... except for Elizabeth, who is, in fact, a woman."
"The lies I told you were not lies"
"You lied to me by telling me the truth?"
"Yes"
"That's good, can I use that?"
"You know when you are standing in a high place and suddenly have the urge to jump?
…I don't have it"
"And that was without even a single drop of ***
"You have a cruel mind, Jack Sparrow."
"Cruel is a matter of perspective"
"You know, for all that pirates are clever clogs, we are an unimaginative lot when it comes to naming things."
"Aye, the original plan was to use nine pieces of eight to bind Calypso, but when the first court met the Brethren were, to a one, skint broke."
"So change the name!"
"To what? "Nine pieces of whatever we happened to have in our pockets at the time?" Oh yes, that's very piratey!"
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
My feeling word is adjective.
My mood number is one to ten.
My goal was met, and now I get
To wonder when I'm free again.
I guess I'm unimaginative.
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 10:01 PM UTC
The Smell of Honey, Coffee and Apples and Messes of Words, but
No Love Poetry
<^>
*my poetry suffers from a literately literacy,
the adjectivally of imagery wears away with
time and age eroding the imagination, when one’s
days are numbered, being serious is an natural
unpleasant hazardous haze, never in doubt
The morning meal of cooked oatmeal, steel cut,
laced with wildflower honey, slices of honey crisp
apples and Hawaiian coffee brewed,
singes the
Tropical Storm Ophelia thrumming humidity
that overhangs the ugly grays of NYC sky-paths,
one tickles me awake with contradictory impulses:
sweet and sour,
a robust stimulative, competing with the smothering of
grayling clouded weather weariness of
48 hours of rainy continuity,
a spirit suffocate
you see!
give you myself, my environment, in précis,
unimaginative exactly as it occurs to me, sensually, yes,
but cannot shake my disappointment that no,
can’t combine visionary notions that spin your swivel
chair around, powered by your exclamations of
ooh, ahh, and little stabs of weeee punctuating
our shared atmosphere
and bring forth
only love poetry
but no mas,
the love poetry doesn’t comes to the fore,
the forehead stuffed with words best listed as
basic, observable, factual,
Miley Cyrus, accuses me of being jaded,
but not with accuracy, more straight jacketed,
way past that half-way point of no return,
turning back is not a listed menu option
love poetry
demands, requires and requests
envisioning, precursor to dreaming,
but I am choking on matters-of-fact,
questions of survivability,
that do not
shed love poetry words,
I
love exclaiming
to any and all within hailing distance,
my loving firmament, but the damp atmosphere
swallows my hopes and sounds, even though
still can smell the lingering nearness odor of honey and apple,
yet, other hints of memory beg to differ,
and I sadly and easy confess,*
this is not a lovely poem…
- * -
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 12:44 PM UTC
An unimaginative girl in high heeled shoes
That pinched her toes like a metaphor
Of painful societal beauty
Once asked me a silly question:
"Why do you wear such horribly huge pants?"
Well my dear,
If I buy sweatpants big enough to swim in,
And I let them slip under my barefooted heels
To become a part of me,
I am the mermaid of my dreams.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
1
*Recently prolific
Writing reactions*…
Yeah, not prolific producing babies
or sowing wild oats
Just this unimaginative, pedestrian activity:
*Writing reactions
Still prolific at my age….*
2
explicit?
No, no, no - me no explicit…
don’t have the ***** to be that
but everything is implicit
like if I write about some aspect of life
it’s all there:
the routine, *** violence, and so on
isn’t everything implicit?
3
*POETS
New and popular*
OK...
how about the
*POETS
New and Unpopular*?
4
OK, I like this guy or gal,
right?
and so I click on LIKE
and the next time I look at it
it says: LIKED
Hey, I still LIKE her!
Look, I still LIKE him!
And why can’t I click on LIKE on my own page?
What’s the matter, can’t I like myself?
Is that a strange notion –
Don’t you guys and gals like yourselves?
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
I’m a stamp -
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp” -
but I am a stamp
a postage stamp, that is;
unique and proud, in my own class,
for I’ve carried queens and kings and emperors
(I still do)
and I carry Presidents and Poets and Rock Kings
and Pop Kings
and Musicians and Legends and Heroes
and Gods and Nations;
and I carry **** blondes
and old dames who’ve dedicated their lives to others
I’ve borne with no complaints
the weight of genius
and soldiers and founders of nations
and martyrs; and I do not discriminate
and with like gusto and color
I’ve carried tyrants and murderers and charlatans
and once-were-legends now the shamed;
and look, I can encompass the universe
and within the shapes formed by my perforations
I’ve held together flowers and birds
and all wonders of nature
I am each a poem, a work of art
I’m a stamp -
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp”
(What? You heard me the first time, did you?
Well, I’ll say it again for emphasis!) -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud -
though, I acknowledge,
the image of Royalty or Heroism or Greatness has
not saved me from various knocks and hard presses
and the ******* bin!
But then, so have mighty royal heads rolled!
but look, hee…heee….heee…
I can be absolutely adorable,
and I just love, love it when you lick me;
and often too
I’m a collector’s item
increasing in value, and even with artistic merit -
though no doubt, there are countless with no idea
of how so darling precious I am
which is I why
I say proudly again:
I’m a stamp
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp”
(And what? Why do I repeat myself?
Well, there are thousands of copies
of one issue, aren’t there?) -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud
and I’ve created worlds all of my own
with pen pals and commerce
and industries and clubs round me;
and I’m not alone, you know,
well-supported by relatives
like prepaid postal envelopes, post cards,
letter cards, aerogrammes
all of us served loyally
by unquestioning Gurkha-style postmen and women;
and I’ve brought hearts and minds together
and I do it in a day or days and or weeks
and if I feel like it, I even arrive decades later! –
and there’s nothing you can do about it!
And oh yes, I can see, you’re prone to neglecting me -
you ungrateful scoundrels! -
first replacing me with cold
Franking Machines,
and cheap, unimpressive, unimaginative franking marks
and with postage meters
imprinting an indicia;
and all of you now
deriding my world as snail pace
in your world of instant e-mails -
but I persist, and I still am of much use
for - listen carefully -
and I say proudly again:
I’m a stamp
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp” -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud;
and if you, once in a while,
want to show me your loyalty –
come to a local post office and lick my royal ****
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 10:03 AM UTC
since the first pop use of the phrase
window of opportunity
(was it Bush or Stargate SG-1?)
politicians big and small
corrupt and incorruptible
fallible and infallible
have all bombarded
the media – on radio, in their blogs
and personal sites
newspapers and journals and broadcasts
and through any speech
they get a chance to make
with that ready phrase:
window of opportunity
Oh, turn on the radio
as you drive maybe
and some glum Finance Minister whispers:
* …grab the window of opportunity…*
read the papers and some plump Minister of Health says:
…we must grab this window of opportunity…
Oh, whole speeches in the English Language now
are bullet-ridden with that cliche
and of course the financial planners
and educators
and doctors and even unimaginative lovers
they have all jumped in
into this window of opportunity
till I’m so irritated and angry now
that if I hear one more eminent personality say:
window of opportunity
Oh, the next time – just one more time –
if I hear anyone use that phrase
window of opportunity
I’m going to send in contract window cleaners
and they’ll grab the window-of-opportunity-user by the collar
and throw them out through the window
and clean the window after –
and I’ll assure you,
those contract window cleaners
will not miss that window of opportunity!
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 8:36 PM UTC
Cold smiles,
Unholy lies,
Dark hearts,
Groping hands,
Perverse thoughts,
Practical words,
Invisible swords,
Heartless refutes,
Unimaginative rebukes,
Hypocritical beings,
These are the things,
That melt the snowflakes in the sun,
Trample sparrows yearning to soar,
Dampen embers smoldering within,
Poach the tiger cub learning to roar.
These are the things
That leave Little broken hearts,
Strewn on the road,
Next to twisted little minds,
Where jaded immature thoughts unload.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
In the "Warwick Arms".
There's a girl wearing fake fur
of yesteryear's youth, weighing
out sexiness in the number
of beers she can afford.
How much oblivion
an unimaginative mind can take
is equal to the power of
a beached whale
drawing it's last breath.
The Russian wipes his moustache
turns around & smirks
that she's somewhat
under-dressed for the long winter.
Going to Japan.
Pink rain:
I could walk through it,
sweet-wrapped.
And the rice-blank past
would be ample weight in my hand.
Like that of roses, remembered.
In a Murakami bar,
octopi would reach out
& dangle questions.
As a thousand pair of eyes
ask me to give the lesson
no-one ever taught me.
That they alone know.
That only pink rain understands.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
I want this life to read like an intricate novel. I don’t want to keep sitting at a computer all day while the romance of life slips through my arthritic fingers. They are meant to write beautiful prose that flow over our souls and cover them with golden warmth.
Yet they are tippy-tappy typing away at exhausting, unimaginative emails with signatures like “warmest regards” to cover how calloused my heart has become.
Sitting in this comfortable space behind a giant screen where nothing can hurt me is crippling. We were meant to embrace the love this earth holds us in. We are supposed to bathe in rivers, meet strangers in different cities, and learn to fall. My knees should have scrapes, my elbows bruised from stumbles I take on dirt roads and motorbikes.
While my bones are intact, my life is what is breaking.
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 9:26 PM UTC
Laying in the lawn
On a boring day
Looking up at the plain blue
"How unimaginative"
I throw the little knife into the air
To see where it lands
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 12:29 AM UTC
They called me a temptress
Rolling the dessert cart out always makes people say the oddest thing
You’re a temptress
I always assumed they were talking about the desserts
The ones I’ve repeated so many times I can rattle them off from memory without the cart in front of me
I never thought they’d be talking about me
I am dessert
I am cake
Not chocolate, I’m not dark enough to be called by such an unimaginative and racist name
Cheesecake
White and pale because I’d never dare to tan without bottoms on
Light brown just around the edges because I can’t help if those bottoms happen to be a little cheeky
Cake for the way my *** looks in the leggings I wear nearly everyday
Cake because I know you’re watching when I tip myself into the freezer to scoop ice cream
Cake for the way the girls tap it as they go by
I am cheesecake
I have creme brûlée skin
Light until I lay out in the sun, under the broiler
Browned to perfection
Covered in darker spots where the heat was too intense, freckles dancing across my cheeks
I am a creme brûlée
I have a cobbler mouth
Pink, nearly red lips
A perfect circle right before I kiss
Sweet and supple like a raspberry
Tangy like a cranberry if I bite
(I have yet to find a boy that doesn’t enjoy that)
Words, sticky sweet, spill out like melted ice cream
I am a cobbler
I have key lime eyes
The centers lined with pumpkin
Sometimes they turn blueberry
It changes with the seasons
(The pies are seasonal too)
I have pie eyes
Maybe when they said temptress they were talking about me
Cake that could be called chocolate when it’s wrapped in black dress pants
Creme brûlée skin that’s all covered up but my face and my hands
But see, see my freckles
See how they cover every inch of me
Cobbler mouth asking if there’s anything else you may want
If you want something to drink with that
My voice dripping out two pitches higher, sticky sweet
Blueberry eyes, almost always, the blue of my shirt brings it out
Even if I’ve only seen that flavor served once
Maybe I am dessert
Dessert
The first thing that gets dropped
Always last choice
Those who say they’ll save room still start with a main course
Dessert
Only eaten if your main course didn’t fill you up, wasn’t satisfying enough for you
Only touched if your girlfriend or your last **** or your lonely aren’t satisfying enough for you
Dessert
If you’re full would you like one to go
Keep me in your pocket, save me for another day
I’ll wait, I don’t know how not to
Dessert
They always called me a temptress
I always assumed they were taking about the desserts
I am dessert
Maybe they were talking about me
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
Call me dour and unimaginative
even say in foggy vistas
that I am numb and thick-skinned
but without mendacity
I duly hand on heart thus proclaim
I just cannot at all relate
to these croaky periphrastic fantasies
of weak disenchanted ghosts
who cursing their opaque transparency
in vacuous bland plasma
crave sojourn in howling and bawling
begging attention and validity
excusez moi mon petite les miserables
but your fantasies
neither resonates nor romanticize
in the sublime realities
of those who walk on solid terra firma
and despite ghostlore
do still see themselves in the dark
and know to keep things real
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 6:01 PM UTC
Not too long ago,
Facebook and Twitter and other Social Networks
All seemed a novelty
A truce amongst unimaginative
Teens and kids and adults too
Whatever happened
To romantic paper printed notes
The blotched ink that actually meant something
Now it is loveless postings
And fake marriages
And fake relationships
This is all thanks
To the brain-cell killing
'Media'
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
*The dullest of backgrounds
In the unimaginative shape of cheap and cheapened unpainted wallpaper
Gives even this, the palest of pale faces, a colour
Unfortunately, a blue and purple vein occasioned twinge,
Does little to flatter smooth foreheads and tight jaws
Fortunately, boundless space and air thick with smothered apprehension
Give plentiful reflection potential for the last lazed rays that have wandered,
waning, through a harsh window open to drain the space more than fill it
Until, upon finding wet blue upon dry white
A frivolous rainbow flickers in the classic tear
On the perfect cheek between this smooth forehead and tightish jaw
Below the eye, one tiny, flickering, frivolous rainbow
For no one to see*
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
The voice once so full of promise has found a new favourite word:
generic.
Generic i love you,
generic i care.
Thoughtless and unimaginative.
Lacking soul,
lacking vision.
As exciting as watching paint dry.
I squeeze for a spark where once was a blaze,
and at close inspection i find:
generic, generic, generic.
Warm molten ice cream drips from her mouth as she drools on here generic branded t-shirt.
Id rather have her curse me than belittle me with thoughtless hollow words picked up in her cliche dictionary.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 6:28 AM UTC
and now, most dignified Gentlemen
and most cultured Ladies -
it is time to turn our attention
to loftier matters, to speak of the spirit
rather than of mundane concerns and
to be stuck in unimaginative and non-inspiring
habits;
and so we turn our attention to the spirits
to the spiritual
to such high matters
to things that lift us above time and our bodies
and such points in reality and frail flesh
that binds us and make little of us;
but the spirit, most sane Sirs,
elevates us;
the spirit, most elegant Ladies,
liberates us;
and so we begin
with bottle in hand, in deed
(look, every religion has its symbols);
and through several drops of this holy water
(several gulps will hasten the magic and miracle)
we are indeed hand in hand with
the Spirit of all spirits
for what matters it if you hold or invoke
gin, *** tequila, ***** or whisky
whatever it is that one lifts
one is lifted by
and that One one lifts is the Grand Spirit…
and you see transformations occur,
the mind is released from the mundane and the pedestrian
and the ordinary;
and one may see light, there is a sense of lightness
and those who may be touched by the Grand Spirit
may actually levitate
and one has visions and ecstasies
all through the spirit,
most Spiritual Sirs
most Lofty Ladies…
and mock not this religion of spirits
for have not masses of humanity all through History
done the same in the name of religion?
Does not humanity do all of the same with
the Great Spirit they call God and
do not they too have visions and ecstasies
and feel the spirit move them and
are always aiming High?
Their senses and wits dulled
but their spirits going on high?
Drunk on high
with words, words, words...
And are they not in their true religion
moved by God and have such grand visions?
and will you then -
O ye vipers!
Ye hypocrites! -
mock the spirit
when you will
sanction and approve and dance
in the midst of those who drink religion?
will you denigrate your brothers
and sisters
in the spirit?
Oh, you who are drunk and revel in the name of God
and holy books and repeated words
will you judge those drunk in the name of the spirit
and radiant revelations that come to them
when they are moved by the spirit?
Judge not, ye hypocrites!
Judge not, lest ye be judged!
And so we end this sermon in amicable spirit,
in unity, in spiritual oneness
between
those who drink of the high of religion
and those who drink of the spirit we have spoken of
Go ye forth hand in hand then
as siblings
for ye that worship in the name of religion
and ye that have ecstasy in your own holy bottled spirit
ye are but brothers and sisters
moved by the One Spirit…
Go ye forth together, go in ecstasy, go high…
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 1:12 AM UTC
Upon this parchment I scribe a vow...
To never turn away even if it burns my eyes to look...
To go on with-out fear of failure and to cast all doubts aside...
A vow to be ignorant of this plague of ignorance!
I solemnly swear that I will spit in the face of prejudice indignity and deface the figure-heads of unimaginative creationism
...And I will not back down nor shall I be deterred from that which is inspired!
I shall embrace freedom to it's fullest extent and will die upon compromise of that which I have deemed sacred.
This much I swear!!
Until death strips me of my right!
I vow to be free.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
agreed, nietzsche hit the nail into a bullseye, the poles are the germanic equivalent of the french.
i'm like athos: the best advice is
to never give advice...
dumas was spot on
on that one,
most people give
advice so other
people can commit
the same mistakes
and seek counselling
to once again read a map
they're supposed to invent,
to stop them following in
someone's footsteps
to an unimaginative east
to only find a setting sun
will always end with a harrowing:
drug addicts do it better,
they don't have a conscience
about it, and the only advice
they give is: more more more!
******** advice is astrology -
wear a zebra or an aeries bow-tie
and you'll be fine... just fine...
picture perfect meringue marionette.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC
You are absolutely undeniably
my favorite.
I love every bit of you,
the way you feel when I
run my hands down your back, and
the unique and subtle scent you carry.
I can't get enough of the way
you make me feel and the way
you make me think even after so
long and I can always predict what
you will say.
I treasure the comfort you give me
after a long day of dealing with
people so trite and unimaginative as you.
There are many like you
but there are none that are you.
You are without a doubt
my favorite book.
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 2:07 PM UTC
what hurts the most
is the unbearable duplicity of it all.
i wonder how long you were going to pretend
once you'd changed your mind,
once i'd become too difficult for you to adore;
i guess developing a personality
outside of your own thoughts
was a huge turn-off.
you must've hoped that love had done a better job
at clouding my judgement right before that last fight.
well, self-awareness truly is a double-edged sword;
i found myself but i lost
the last ounce of compassion
towards your ever so unimaginative lies.
now that it's time to reap the fruits of our labour
every bite gets stuck like a lump inside my throat.
but darling, just so you know,
what hurt me the most
was the unbearable duplicity of it all.
Jun 10, 2024
Jun 10, 2024 at 12:14 PM UTC
*when it came to naming things we were so imaginative, hydrochloric acid et. al., so imaginative we forgot to equip everyone with enough vocabulary stash of savings, and we decided to call that savings black hole dyslexia; and yet when it came to naming people, our imagination sort of got lost, we became unimaginative... a ****** million johns in the cauldron of speaking - and half of them entitled with a surname smith.*
first came gabriel unto mary,
then gabriel became a mr. wordsworth
or a mr. wordington,
the sacredness of the name
enshrined in very famous books
lost their prowess, their income
decreased in terms of people thinking
about them, only the spaniards
were daring enough to name
their children jesus en masse -
and so it goes, modern era, people
reduced to be called peaches & maltesers,
or some other schmuck pluck name;
and then you do wonder,
esp. when you come to a divination,
the catholic bureaucracy, the tetragrammaton
shambles, first the prime gospels
numbering four, then your first name, your
second name, your confirmation name,
your surname - but indeed them you
come across some oddly personal detailing through
the lens peering at a single word,
on paper, a poem by adam zagajewski
(always breezy poetry, like a cool wind
on a rocky beach in Cornwall),
rome, open city, and with citation -
*matthew keeps asking himself: was i truly
summoned to become human?*
i know, a whimsical idea, the 20th century's
"perfect" splendour of being humanely
attentive to what that actually means -
now a time when even medical students stride to
use poetry for an armchair, and a time when
poets as such, poets pure and simple
are turning into better magicians than the old
and the terminally ill - while the critics ask
aesthetic questions of whether song lyrics are
poetry, and why you can't really sing what's
defined as poetry, not with instruments at least,
the verbiage they say, a mountain of luggage
just sitting there - no wonder then, given lyricism
has turned to:
um, yeah, pop a champagne bottle, um yeah,
all my ******* and ma'h hoes, um, yeah,
watch me fly the emirates business class,
um, yeah, put my hand in a kangaroo pouch,
um yeah - say oh! say slow! um, yeah,
heads up in the hood, um, yeah; etc.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 5:25 PM UTC