The Age of Poetry is dead – or is it?
Perhaps, with a world mercurial and a future unfathomable, poetry might resurrect meaning. It invites an economy of words and paper and gives poor old linear thinking a much-needed getaway. If a picture is worth a thousand words, is a hundred-word poem an open shutter on the belly button of consciousness? Is a poem a ballad ... fragments whispered from the consciousness of sound?
Autopoietic
The womb
Entrances me
Thoughts similar but easily startled
Like flocks of starlings
Conspire
To voice the universal infinite
You say it’s like a web
Shivering in the knowledge of trees
And spiders
And circulatory perambulations of water
… and salt … bones and blood
… “Like a web”
Shimmering with the dew of dreams unfathomable
And tests untried
It is elastic
But breaks
A crystalline fragility
Glass, ice, mirror …
egg
Humpty Dumpty
Teetering and tottering on
Precipice of time
Ticking and tocking as the mice run
Up and down
I call to it in my
Heart
A coyote in
An urban trap
This webbed infinity
Of geometrical desire
Thirsting for
The shelter of the moon
In nights overindulged
By the fierce electric
The reflection of the stars
Patterns of belief
Paw prints on the snow
Metaphors colliding
Sometimes it is good
To step off the tracks
And fall
Into sublime
Nothingness
Shattering the possible
On jagged shores
Of hope