Poetry

Modern Poetry | Post-Modern Poetry | Love Poems

Modern Poetry

3 Small Mercies

3 Small Mercies

& I know it is dead
for a living heart
would erupt from the seat
& race to me & damn the world
as I would damn the world
if it would beat for me again

Kingfisher II

Kingfisher II

to feathers & silent songs I go – still
trapped in the prosaic silence & no wings
can lift a pen so heavy with ink enough
to sculpt you from the page & no voice breaks
through a beak bound so long
to sing your praises

Kingfisher

Kingfisher

I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

A Little Ink

A Little Ink

all the wit in the world
incomparable to handfuls of hot
dripping meat; that’s what I wanted;
everything I read
everything I wrote
to be dripping wet

La Fleur est Belle

La Fleur est Belle

the flower fought growth
I don’t know if you knew that
reluctant to let some mother enter it’s body
terrified of god taking Root amongst the leaves
turned its face from the sun
swore to photosynthesise in the dark

Moirai

Moirai

instead of simply grazing
the surface of your breasts in desperation
& could overcome their wild passions
for the logic & mathematics of poetry
or the campaign of ecstasy I execute
as Thanatos delivering your body

Pygmalion

Pygmalion

there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care

Cormorant

Cormorant

on certain nights
when there was no hope
& all the radio stations played
Bela Lugosi’s Dead
on repeat
stretched out the chained drums

Zephyr

Zephyr

it would be nice I think it would be nice
to pretend that all this pain is purely for you
romantic in our fucked up way how fucked we
have always been it comes now to romance
and something like love truth is
I was hurting & hurting myself

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Modern Poetry

Poetry is one of the last great refuges of the 21st Century. Modern poetry spins and crackles in the air; modern, traditional, post-modern poems move through our brains and mellows, enrages, burns and blows on the wind. All poems can enhearten us, devastate us. Poems can be a clever turn of phrase, a wry smile, an evocation of any emotion – poems are one of the only art forms which can actually provide us with a framework on how to live our lives.

And now, by forcing it to perform in pixels and on screens, I’m destroying modern poetry. I don’t want to. I want to glisten like a modern poet, to smile and move and turn on the spot like a poet. These poems aren’t really poems – I don’t know if it’s possible for somebody like me to write poems. They are an attempt at modern poetry.