21st century poetry

before wisdom

An animal without thinking of hands opens a cave of innocence. It sleeps without the weight of tomorrow, like a burning match. The other animals are heavy with knowledge, spinning like kaleidoscopes of fat. My ideal self is a plant, surrounded on every side by invisible expanses of solitude. Sometimes it could think, but always to negate. It will say: these petals have not changed the world. And it will sway and tremble in a monotonous wind. If the world is a vessel sinking irrevocably into forgetfulness, there is no real distinction of types. These beings we see, or imagine and sometimes become have no name. Like thistles with nameless thorns. Like music with blind hours. Like blood without the river of taste. I see the fur and claws submerging; the animal does not struggle. It drowns like a bean in water. But I still don’t know if in a glass, an ocean or in eternity.

PoEtry

quotidian epic

Timeless apple

Hinted
then ripple
of white gasp
the entire orb
of inspiration

then the clouds
the sun hiding
in total light

the task is to use a daub of paint
to depict a mistake
or a river of thought
or pain eating the soul
as if it were soft bread

I sense a feeling
empty of emptiness
it is full of invisibility

the irony is
the instant is like blood
never seen but intimately wrapped
a cut an explosion a gash perhaps
and the world is all red without words

like an apple
timeless
on the table.

 

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

withdrawal

raw fields of bliss

If a closed
pair of eyes where
I could crowd
the effusiveness of 16
hours spent in doubt
and awe,
if I could stitch the
wonderful cloud
of perception behind
the dark mirror
of sleep,
if a coarse
hum of cars could
kindle the low brass
handsome innocence
of the thunder,
if the cocks collide
at hilarious dawns
in darkness the pupils
empty of light
to be cups brimming
with the honey of sense,
if the boulders of the eyes
spewed by the dreamer
land far away
in raw fields of
bliss

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

warmer stone

doodle art 2012

so much
to tear a song
from artery
and replace the
heart for a warmer
stone

a rivulet of memory
without ultimate value
a field where
the truth bends
as incense

when sleep
is a crumb
of eternity
an immense
solitude
in darkness

souls in flakes perhaps
sore of flight
come to alight
in strange dances of silence

what fever
by which the stars
seem like children
dim against the
thickness of the world

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

The ant feeling

I have the hands of a dictator.
Thoughts of a circle
and a pretty bloated lower lip.
I wake up some days thinking
how many galaxies are needed
for this life to be indubitably
insignificant.
I look at the mirror,
those eyes like clouded enigmas.
And then come the words,
like heavy storms of smoke.
If the sky were glass to break;
but I settle for grunge.
While to most life is a gulf,
to me
the world is a knife
two parallel lines
that meet at the horizon
to stab me right
in the middle
of my unseen heart.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

the last moment

within the
last moment

when you lift
existence
as a weightless
fish in your hands

when the road
becomes your tail
shivering
as the endless
echo of the earth

when nothing else
shall come
and the eyes dance
as flies in the darkest air

within the last
pause of perception

when
the blood becomes
still as the shadow
on the ground;

a white butterfly

leaves your mouth
to be carried away
by the gale of

silence

Nihilistic Poetry

granite sleep

Wholeness Sleep

 

unable to wake

I remained

behind the ruin of a memory

 

a Chinese serpent

swerving in the currents

of my dormant eyelids

 

nothingness was a province

where an obsidian pyramid

stood against a starless night

 

there in bed

roving like a raving raven

within the

delicate depths of darkness

 

surrounded by

a deep moat –

the dark waters

of space

swallowing any ray of light

that may cross over

to my dispossessed eyes

 

lone

existing alone

light as perishable infancy;

heavy as a bridge above years

 

a statue

untying itself

from its surface

of imitation

 

so I squandered the imported

bullion of dreams

and with quivering fascination

became empty and
bankrupt

of image

 

unable to wake

I surrendered

like

a history

written on the soft

tissue of the spirit –

never to be

read.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

 

g’night

I will sleep tonight
cargoless
adding only to my lightness
the thickening trickle of a trance

to behold the failing world
cradled by darkness

such is my noiseless faith

to whom belongs today
when it is already recollection

the eyes drown in intimate vastness
the ears dip into soft limbo

the earth and its history
recede and disappear
as does the voice
that defined them.

 

 

 

21st Century Poetry

poetical investigations

Visualize

the first act

of violence

that gave meaning

to the word

‘violence’

the first dog

that symbolized the

genus of all dogs –

the moment

when abstract

was no longer

a word

but the whole history

of the world

Imagine

the timeless

before we gave

it a name

or happiness

before it

became a goal

or truth

when consciousness

was still ineffable

and nesting

Suppose

meaning

was the hardest

bone

and eternity

a living

cloud

Conceive

matter as the

drying spirit

or spirit

as the sleep

of atoms

Assume

if only once

that essence

is the entire

instant of life –

and death

is the entire

essence of poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry

I hear the world

I hear
the world celebrate
another hour
another drop of time
another innocent tick of the clock
their voices unite in aggressive shapes
of extreme joy
another noon
another fulcrum
their austere clasped hands
held high in new directions
upon a crescent
rising towards a vanishing point
another compound
another openness
sirens wail in the open street
the cavalry proceeds in metal consonant
another descent of the moon
another compendium of light and shadow
I hear the world
positively amidst the churning voids
proceeding full of gaiety and culture
another pyramid
another stretch
I hear them
almost transcending the bronze
of the horizon
another century
another column toward infinite
their bones are statues with slanting
shadows
I hear the world
celebrate the happiness of the arc
another navel
another marble testament
a world without king
I hear the wind intersect
the hollow texture of the dream
I hear them
unified in tempo
against nothing at all.

Nihilistic Poetry