by | Poetry

Terrifying, how much poetry
  one can find, if you look
     in the right graves.


show me nightmares
needed to understand
the beauty of poetry / the soul of verse
and I will dream them;

under northern clouds, I will dream
the rare beauty of a clear night sky
until all the stars go out
and there is nothing left;

under nothingness, I will dream
of the great, forgotten jewels;
glistening dew on an evening dress.

Show me, again, Ezra, mad Ezra,
the majesties and freedoms
of this madness;
show me them in dying,
if not in death –
in living,
if not in life.

We are dying, you and I,
(or dead already) and,
there are poets out there,
living adequate lives; creating
reflections and pressed ashes
of the most exquisite beauty –
and there are those, living
truly wonderful moments,
truly beautiful nights,
without writing
a single word.

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modern poetry
Carey Poet

A Vague Outrage

White Cross, Blue Flag flicker; as the silhouettes, the half-men and the half-women write poetry and form semi-colons amongst the clouds and the endless skies; they block the sun in the spaces between phrase and phrase and I breathe petroleum, or the remnants of...

Morts Anglais

Over the Seine, life plays out its fullest – we’re all exhausted, dirty & no refreshment in the stolen rain before the sky cracked with summer again & complain of French expression;Their passion makes us sterileWhile I contemplate suicide, again, wondering if...

Upon the Poet, in His 25th Year

Let it be no calmer in your hands; time enough
for the calm, the warmth and the cold in the grove…

The Moth

Lit by the dulling drunks, & lonely matches,a moth climbed the shadows;thought of you, thoughts of me, so far away now;How your light came breaking through the me of being me; How soon I became a moth, desperate in your darkness, fleeing only the shapes of things...