Inside the screech of an owl

three contemporary postmodernist poems

Three poems published (buried) at The Screech Owl.

Poems titled:

  • The Postmodernist
  • Four.
  • Hardly a time for poetry.

THE POSTMODERNIST
exploits
the game of reason
to escape the predicament of truth,
s/he operates the machinery
of logic
only to jam it
with its self-generated contradictions.

The new literati
are not avoiding the difficulties
of meaning,
they are stirring the flame
that will one day consume
the substance of our values.

The postmodern human
does not rise above the ideology of symbolic interpretation
and gladly participates
in the confusion of verbs and vituperations
aimed against the metaphysically-drained
ambiguity of the world’s narrative.

The certainty of facts is no longer
the underlying foundation of knowledge; rather,
the elusiveness of truth
is what impels us to disclose
what lies
just beyond the grasp of language.

Four.

Is it ridiculous
to open the door,
and expect the world
to dissipate
like the isolation of a cloud.

Is it worth
inventing a concept
where sadness is all
puckered and arguably
thick as a shadow.

Is it futile
to attribute to movement
an arm that ends
in the grasp of decay.

Is it strange
to find in this image
manifold flames
slowly wounding the eyes. \

Hardly a time for poetry.

I have tried to avoid
negating the
exaggerated passions
of the poets.

There is a colossal amount of desire.
And any contradiction
of the size of the sky
is often no more than the obscured
simplicity of a pebble in your hand.

I have been sympathetic
while successfully demystifying
the emptiness that gathers in pools
inside the poetry of the modern.

Some time ago
when the edifice of silence
merged with the horizon of knowledge,
many placed the value of paradise
in the service of an absurd rage.

I suppose that the reason
we expose our insights in the light
of years is only to remember
the minute cave of their origin.

After we have transcribed
the entire system of our impulses into monuments of smoke,
we can then go on and specify
how many illegible dreams transcended
the ordinary realm of the image.

The question as to the real significance
of the rapid decay of our art
does not bother me so much now
as the hopeless need to lose oneself
in the numinous stage of the ineffable.

One thought on “Inside the screech of an owl

  1. I am not a poet, i just admired your lines and it is my way of showing it…

    Give me five drop the four

    Sorry I am late as few before
    I get zero in Alizarin red
    That same populist pen ball
    Blind camel in Amazon
    Traced that Edifice of nothingness
    That hole made so black
    By one finger of your Four

    That same blatant pen
    Marked dimensions
    Errors to deceptions
    For that demon door
    Yes…walk away from it
    Stretch your arms
    Widen those Many Windows
    Those Blessings
    They are the Morals
    Fear them not
    Textures Of destiny
    They fill your breath
    Cumulonimbus dew
    White Towers of truth
    Need no stain of peahen

    Should we then give up the pledge?
    Should sadness rub away life?
    It is but a shadow of suspense
    Crawling …
    Over the window of truth
    There lies the thrill
    The challenge
    Many men have no breakfast
    But carry every dawn
    They believe their genes
    Tied to no stray inception
    So they keep looking back
    To feel the dew of purpose,
    To recall the vow
    Made at that window-ledge

    It is decay
    That opens curtains
    Green leaves display
    Springs of Nights for days to grow
    The theatre of life
    Carries on the play
    For sober souls
    To ponder and Grasp
    Fruits of eternal say
    So little children will sup
    Riding tomorrow,
    Will reconquer spirit
    New season schoolday

    It may be refreshing
    To sense by these lines
    Strings of hope
    Knowledge in Woody vines
    Climbing to grasp
    The canopy of the future
    Where breakfast, angels
    For those days, will endow

    (Adam Cherad 07.12.2020)

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