03-04-2017, 12:39 AM
Let the church bells ring
in eulogy
for poetry has lost its head.
I'm sorry to be the cornier of the lost art,
but friends we must admit
poetry is dead.
We the pion readers
read for each other, write for each other,
and watch our noise ignored
as we ignore each other
while verse whispers its final breaths,
crushed by the weight of WiFi, radio, and other signals alien.
Alice Walker was new black feminism,
Rich a vocal queer,
Hughes a man of Renaissance,
Ginsberg drumming beats,
popped ideas too big,
rubber shards scattering.
But poetry's not dead, you say.
Just check out all the zines!
We have horror poems, erotic, humor, haiku, pick words, daily posts, kitsch, serious form, and free!
More poets than we've ever seen!
How can poetry be dead with so many on the scene?
And all the critics with the crickets playing cricket violins?
At the presidential inauguration,
poet Elizabeth Alexander read a poem.
Did you see it?
Of course you didn't.
Poetry is dead.
But we have laureates, you say,
so poetry ain't dead!
Unless you write poems, you haven't heard of them,
and even if you find some joy in working verses' shapes,
can you name the laureate of your state?
Of course you can't. Poetry is dead.
And what the hell is a sonnet anyways?
A villanelle?
Who gives a hell!
Your haikus are too highfalutin.
Bill might have gotten a few more shakes on his spear
instead of jambing on in iamb.
Why bother bending brains for verse?
No one really cares!
We'd better spend our time and data
filming on our phones
to make a documentary called life
inside my phone!
Surely viral it will flow
on endless streams of endless shows
the never-ending binge and glow,
blue light angles
holding three TV remotes.
Look at poetry in the corner!
What corner casts a shadow?
Poetry is surrounded by the firing squad.
Fire.
Poetry is dead.
But could poetry be dead
with all this verse on the page
and you with me reading
like CPR on a dying old woman?
No.
You can't bring her back from the dead
with all your pounding on the page
and refusing to stop this verse
adding to the body of this stanza
like bloodless veins in an arm.
Today,
the voices that call bullshit
don't waste a day in verse and meter.
They login to twitter
and sound off a post,
which goes viral,
which becomes hashtag,
which becomes movement,
which is poetry,
in the way of Walker, Rich, Hughes, and Ginsberg.
Yes, poetry is dead,
but do you know her children?
in eulogy
for poetry has lost its head.
I'm sorry to be the cornier of the lost art,
but friends we must admit
poetry is dead.
We the pion readers
read for each other, write for each other,
and watch our noise ignored
as we ignore each other
while verse whispers its final breaths,
crushed by the weight of WiFi, radio, and other signals alien.
Alice Walker was new black feminism,
Rich a vocal queer,
Hughes a man of Renaissance,
Ginsberg drumming beats,
popped ideas too big,
rubber shards scattering.
But poetry's not dead, you say.
Just check out all the zines!
We have horror poems, erotic, humor, haiku, pick words, daily posts, kitsch, serious form, and free!
More poets than we've ever seen!
How can poetry be dead with so many on the scene?
And all the critics with the crickets playing cricket violins?
At the presidential inauguration,
poet Elizabeth Alexander read a poem.
Did you see it?
Of course you didn't.
Poetry is dead.
But we have laureates, you say,
so poetry ain't dead!
Unless you write poems, you haven't heard of them,
and even if you find some joy in working verses' shapes,
can you name the laureate of your state?
Of course you can't. Poetry is dead.
And what the hell is a sonnet anyways?
A villanelle?
Who gives a hell!
Your haikus are too highfalutin.
Bill might have gotten a few more shakes on his spear
instead of jambing on in iamb.
Why bother bending brains for verse?
No one really cares!
We'd better spend our time and data
filming on our phones
to make a documentary called life
inside my phone!
Surely viral it will flow
on endless streams of endless shows
the never-ending binge and glow,
blue light angles
holding three TV remotes.
Look at poetry in the corner!
What corner casts a shadow?
Poetry is surrounded by the firing squad.
Fire.
Poetry is dead.
But could poetry be dead
with all this verse on the page
and you with me reading
like CPR on a dying old woman?
No.
You can't bring her back from the dead
with all your pounding on the page
and refusing to stop this verse
adding to the body of this stanza
like bloodless veins in an arm.
Today,
the voices that call bullshit
don't waste a day in verse and meter.
They login to twitter
and sound off a post,
which goes viral,
which becomes hashtag,
which becomes movement,
which is poetry,
in the way of Walker, Rich, Hughes, and Ginsberg.
Yes, poetry is dead,
but do you know her children?
Thanks to this Forum
