Poetry

Modern Poetry | Post-Modern Poetry | Love Poems

Modern Poetry

Talkin’ Bouquet Blues

Talkin’ Bouquet Blues

roses are only beautiful because
they are weak
& you are not weak
but filled with the ghosts of a thousand lover’s bowers
you have outlived a thousand roses

Self-Reflection

Self-Reflection

poets; happy to tell you
you have a broken smile
& they’ll keep you from splints
& medicines
so they can tell you over
& over again

Writing Verse

Writing Verse

why did it work on you?
never even mentioned it
when you smiled, laughed
at cruel humour –
touched your fingers
to my arm

Loch Earn

Loch Earn

had I known, then? arriving
the breeze come burning
& guiding mighty storms from seas
I knew come shuddering drugs
& clenched the teeth to bite
the sleeping waters

Rouen

Rouen

cigarettes & two words –
le bel! Le bel!
shouted over the water, momentary
madness our bondage
freed in chains, exultation free in
passionate strings;

Sparrows

Sparrows

she watches over
even the sparrows
you said
so why didn’t she watch over me
am I worth less than
the innocence of a bird

Chasers

Chasers

lynched between the library & addictions
Miller exploded in me again; all God suddenly
eternal in the world
she couldn’t answer
she was the language
holy thoughts come rising in

Great Poets

Great Poets

for there to be successful writers,
commercial poets
great poets recording twisted skeletons
of the age – a scaffold of mediocre writers,
poets who call themselves poets;
beauty and analysis

Where’s the A, huh?

Where’s the A, huh?

is your ragged calendar marked? some
black date crucified where I first began
to lie to you?
Or was I honest & numb &
you chose a face to fit your dreams & pre-
conceptions

Redolence

Redolence

I can’t escape your smell; releasemy fingers, my eyes, my beards, my masks, my clothes & my car                I’ve tried everything; - cigarettes on my finger - Titian exhibits for my eyes - bleach in my beard - blood on my shirts & mud on my jeans - broken speed limits & migrant valetsin the office, they’re making eyes at me wondering when...

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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.