Memory has become an uncomfortable lump in my consciousness.

poetry_of_memory

It quivers
constantly and endlessly
ripens into new peculiar
shapes.

Needless to say
it increases weight
every minute,
often requiring immense
exertion to fit it in a corner
so it does not overshadow
the timid appearance of
the present.

It branches out
like a gluttonous tree
in all directions,
wavering disparate aspects
of itself without logic
or internal organization.

A primeval adolescent kiss,
a manure fight in the fields,
a quote from Montaigne
the location of masking tape
in a storage room, all mingle
shamelessly like an orgy
of bacteria in the Petri dish
of my mind.

Language is forced to perform
extreme feats of lucidity
to convey the peculiar manifestations
with which memory
fuddles the intellect.

I imagine a day
when consciousness of the present
will be completely drowned
by the swelling tsunami of memory,
leaving the brittle instant of now
floating like débris
on a flood of lifelong reminiscence.

 

Contemporary Poetry

the philosophy of wood

philosophy_poem

The table
	no time for its
	existentialism
and absurd
chair leaning against
the table’s futile stance.

	I’m a pragmatic man
so I have no use for knowing
myself.

The table
	studies its own nature
by looking at its askew shade.
Chair, somberly
contemplating suicide
because it wants to remove
its painfully ingrown nails.
	Paradoxically they keep it alive,
	in form, in function. 

I have only one reality and the clarity of purpose. 

My furniture’s
introspection
is a trifling problem
in my busy condition. 

The table has begun questioning things. 
	It likes it when I leave Camus
	on its surface. 
I hear the creaky whisper, quoting:
	‘the human wooden heart has a tiresome tendency
	to label as fate only what crushes it.’

Absurdly, the chair stares at the modernity
of my modus operandi. 

I cannot be stopped to wonder. 
	Progress is my mission. 

The table is a stranger to itself.
	The chair competes 
 for my attention. 

I have appetites that the world
cannot satisfy.

Table is dissatisfied with its lucidity,
	through logic the chair has
arrived at the conclusion that
knowledge is a form of chaos.

I’m a man of the world in spite of everything. 

	In spite of poverty, war, injustice or
my furniture’s uncertainty and their long
episodes of incoherent silence.

Contemporary Poetry

first time

21st_century_poem

 

Remember the beginning
when even purity was a hot coal
in our hands.
The waves of genesis
and we built a clock, a molecule at a time.
We followed the river and
craved of its skin like white fur and foam
to be annihilated as beams and ripples in the sea.
Society was a coffin where we learned a dialogue of echoes.
But now this ear of mine hears the throat of time gutter
so timeless motion of reiteration
its old blossoms of fine appearance.
Now the distance is glazed with my breath.
The elements are trapped in the hard wombs of words
but everything else crumbles as shadows being
faceless in the ash.
Memory, remember when memory was a fruit we had only
tasted once?
I’m frightened because the sky is immense
and I am naked in its clouds
like a prostitute in the
wind.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

mortal questions

mortal_questions

Who chases the myth
while drenched
in the blood
of the primordial hunt?

Who has placed a hyphen
between Sky and I
to sense the aura
of a blue atmosphere
as a newer skin?

Who will concentrate
all language
into one singular word
that falls heavy
             as a meteorite
into the sands
of nocturnal desert?

Who will endlessly
double the depth
of one earth suspended
in the night?

Who will reduce
consciousness
to a milligram
of image?

Who has made
a door from odor
through which memory
walks out
into open land?

Who will unearth
mankind and root
childhood back
in the curl
    of a cloud?

Who will find
this poem hidden
from the glare of knowledge
waiting in the shadows
of their touch?

Contemporary Poetry

you.

truth

You.
And the world
is your shadow.
You pale like
the archeology
of a voice,
of a concept.
You.
Sleeping like
a classical representation
of philosophy.
You.
And the measurement
of the universe.
You
like a visible
collection of
fictions.
You, metaphysically
and verbally a
sign.
You the threads
of an octopus.
You.
My fundamental
posited
truth.

Contemporary Poetry

structures

bicycle in motion

I wait
for structure
unguided orbit
‘round pitch black
eclipsed
purpose

I wait
for algorithm
gate through organism
a master-slave
relationship
between weightlessness
and me

I act
while belonging
to a higher order
of improbability –
fixed to the pillory
of a future

watch me
bicycle below
a clouded sky
unaware of the
the zoology
of experience

look
how a baby
embraces
a flock of details
but I still
lean against
a solidified flux

yes I
wait
for a self
to chain itself
to this body

like a saint
anchored
to
a pool
of feathers

Nihilistic Poetry

Ding an sich

philosopher poet

 

Don’t ever
seep into words
forsake the colors
and phenomenon can rain
towards black, equidistance
to every night

sleep
as the thing-in-itself
within the shadow
of one thought

soon no externals
but the perception as bread
feeding cold stomachs of mind

don’t lay claim to matter, chain
blind domain but instant unity
where space is skin and
bodies bounded as kissing
tongues

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG