Poetry

Modern Poetry | Post-Modern Poetry | Love Poems

Modern Poetry

A Very Gentle Suicide

She was smoking by the Irwell when she decided to kill herself and I couldn’t stop her. She decided to buy a house in Marsh Green – in that part near the factory where the locals say they’re from Orrell and not Kitt Green, and take their dogs on long, noose-like walks along the Bell. She decided to keep 10% of her wages in a different bank account so it...

For Hannah;

I go looking every morning, for the clearest view; for that clean contrast between the greens and the blues. I go looking on hilltops and riversides, atop tenement buildings and trailing the gutters through the cities and the towns, to the thatched roofs of true, archaic beauty surmounted with ancient waste. Clarity reflects when, enrapt, eyes lock on some...

Are You Happy?

Whenever I think of happiness, I’m filled with this kind of hopelessness. I can’t think of a single time when I have experienced the joy that I’ve read about – the kind of elation that spits fire through the veins. And that is all I’ve ever wanted. I’m not interested in money, or popularity; I’m not even interested in love, if I am being honest with...

Ghost

S; here comes your ghost again through the wall wailing. The scars in the meat of your arm, beneath spectral skin, catch on the iron nails that hold up your art and make you scream and pull away the muscle itself. With scrabbling fingers, hooked claws, puncturing the air like talons howling, disturbing, disturbing my sleep and burning, burning, burning the...

On Passion

Mightn’t it make more sense to spill my passions out upon the floor, Than direct it in meaningless frustration at these hollow keys, And the clicking clatter of their tombstone impact upon the white-page door – To ignore the lure of life’s great, dreadful typewriting ink seas, And its prison-cell freedom; And simply live? Simply love? Simply wear my knees...

Unfocused

I can’t get the camera to focus. All the streetlights are stretched from Heaven to Hell; they make it impossible to see. The sky pants to itself, desperate, behind the yellow flowers, starved, and crucified on the grass, thirsty, beneath the splintered lights, waiting for the cool yellow milk of dawn to sober it up. The road seems brighter, stained with...

All These Words

And all these words are an act of vomit, of feeling the soul pulse in the stomach and spit; all these words like black bile raindrops on a white porcelain page And all memory of the moment is replaced with the aftermath, and the harsh pleasures of endless revulsion become apologies and concerns and damage control. And all these words are an act of vomit,...

A Red Dress

A red dress, and said “when you were a boy”; I choked on love; I was a boy and you were the night forest – lost, scared, alone in you, alone with the wind moans through bracken branches making a stranger’s bed with my name engraved in the headboard, with half-satisfied boasts in the chisel-daggers’ art. City light; hideous against you and joy, when eyes...

Bluebird

Liz, I don’t know how to start this letter. I’ve spent hours; countless papers sprawled across my bed and in my bin; that perfect opening line. I wanted, in a sentence, to remind you; reflected a thousand times against the glass walls and above the pool table at 3:00 am beneath the ground; in that Sodom that cut through the drunkenness and left us sober...

Nothing

Wooden fingertips of electricity puncturing the heavy mist, the mist that doesn’t dance from molecule to molecule, the mist that doesn’t spread like wildfire, the mist that doesn’t expand like the crackle of napalm, but is slow, pregnant and mute, the mist that weeps into the eyes and the cameras and blurs everything into a short-sighted daydream; the mist...

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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.