Poetry of the Human Psyche

7

What is this poetry, you keep talking about
This poetry, you keep becoming
Like a neurological stimulation
You can’t give up!?

An imported art for the few
From some peculiar time
When people read and spoke of

Their innermost feelings
Is poetry to be felt as something
Fundamental, then, or a shape produced

Or a fictional narrative
Or a sculpture of nature reproducing
Something or copying something other
An architecture of the human condition?

A caricature then, a blank slate that is
Never truly neutral or objective at all?
Or a failure to integrate into reality?

Some verbal instrument of our subjectivity
A popular language of futility
Like philosophy, or something to be hidden
By teenagers on secret blogs

All appearances do seem fallacious
And we disdain to be ourselves classified
As the formerly neurotic, or spontaneously flawed

But who cares, we trace our own definitions
Right down to the words we choose to affirm
However our psyche breathes, however
Our art can account for our genes

In these environments, this snapshot of history
These ruined cities and corrupted nations
So poetry is not meant to convince or persuade

But to reveal, offering a sense of
The human to the intelligence machine
And offering a sense of the past to the future
A passion of the elementary kind

We wrote our best poems when young
Considered poetry, it’s an elegance of interpretation
Which takes greatest delight in hearing

Our own voice, like a vanity of our griefs
That’s the state of society, measured
In linguistic trends and masquerading as art.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s