We Can Make O u r L i v e s Sublime

We Can Make O u r L i v e s Sublime

Sweet soul, in mournful numbers
We dwindle like a lost tribe
With the beauty of dead slumbers
And life’s earnest poetry to dust returns
In our voices that will not climb

The days and decades to come
Our psalms to beauty
Will not say \time is fleeting\
Art is long and love endures
The past lives in shadows here

In our heart that holds the mystery
Of all that was great and all
That can learn and labour and wait
The poetry that is the true music
Of the human spirit pursing itself.

Who is your Favorite poet of all-time? Try the Survey!

Hey Everyone,

Here is your chance to celebrate your all-time favorite poets, you will be able to choose a few of the ones in this list who have moved you the most. Tick the boxes next to the poets you treasure the most. These poets were shortlisted from an exhaustive and subjective review of the literature.

If you don’t see your favorites, let us know we can add a few more!

https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/363WYDH

Choose the poets who most impacted your own writing, those rare poets who truly you feel are the most influential poets in your life.

Do note: That some of the classical cannon have been omitted from the list quite on purpose: Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, Dante, Goethe, Hugo, etc… (to name a few) to give a chance for more recent and unusual poets to be listed. We’d very much like to add more non-European poets if possible from foreign countries with equal footing for female and male poets represented.

We consider this list to be informative as to some of the best poetic literature humanity has produced recently, so if you don’t know some of these names, I suggest you look them up. Let us know if you “discover” anyone on this list that impresses you.

Please share this post on social media and here, to get a comprehensive survey going, thanks.

The Initiation into Poetry #amwriting #poem #writer #literature

The Initiation into Poetry

It’s said that poets are anxious bohemians
A strange figure in a dishevelled landscape
With some kind of Baudelaire complex
Alive with sex and tragic forsaken brooding
Or some schizophrenic Holderlinian tick

Some Plath-worthy enigmatic illness
That is hard to treat, harder to diagnose
But the truth is, poets invent their own reality
On another level, than you and I
They are like jesters in love with words

They can’t stop the ranting
They are infatuated with the music
And the temptation of anxiety and trepidation
The anticipation of freedom that is the after-taste of verse
Like wanting to be loved, and not knowing how

I knew a few poets who are mild autistics
They will imagine something beautiful about you
But’s it’s an ultimately self-annihilating plight
Like how we all need another soul to cling to
Poets cling to beauty, and the soul of other poets

And love to die for their art, making good martyrs
I guess you may or may not have the stomach for it
It’s not something you can do exceptionally well
It’s the feeling of going to hell and heaven
On a dime, to imagine you have a calling for it

It’s a daily demonstrative love you feel
That you put and marry to the page
Day after day, until all memory is a fragment
Of a poem you once wrote, it starts to have
A life of its own, poets taste glory in each day
And aren’t particularly afraid of experiencing pain.

Decline of American Poetry #Wordsmatter #NationalPoetryMonth

Decline of American Poetry

There is a great decline in American verse
I call it suicide by vandalism
Of modern poets, poets who
Upon obtaining MFAs, talk to each other

In poetry without a soul
Now I’m not one to flag ambition
But I can spot a poser easily enough
They believe for one, that

There verse is special, beyond criticism
They write without evidence
Of the comprehension of an audience
Their writing has no currency

When read even four years later
I would not call it increased professionalism
More like, uneventful snobbery
Modern poetry has no following

Sceptical and overwrought I turn the page
There is no lyricism left
So yes, I am somewhat dismissive
Of second rate American poets

I prefer to look elsewhere
Poets are injured, buried beneath grievance
In a history that they do not even understand
It’s not to say that I don’t respect them

But the movement lacks leadership, inspiration
Poetry yes nourishes and enlivens
But not in the current form, does it
Share a narrative with a congregation of the brightest

It has no willingness to create beauty anymore
It just cannot stop speaking
Divorced from reality, activism, revolution
I don’t read poetry, to listen to

Second-rate spoken word
I’m not sure about you, or by whose authority
I’ve read exactly enough proof of decaying form
To recognize imposters nine times out of ten

Our system that awards fame is corrupt
Our best poets are not names I’m interested in
They aren’t authentic voices I’d cherish
Maybe the editors and critics are to blame?

I’d seriously challenge the categories of art
Modern poetry killed the genre
And I don’t pretend not to see the signs
The quality of poetry reflects a problem of literacy

A declining soul and strength of spirit
In the American psyche, that has been
A long time coming, fame is being distorted
With a lot of bad verse, it’s nonsense if you ask me.

Double dream of spring

Double dream of spring

In march I had a double dream of spring
Like a painting infused in my waking moments
I felt an immense hope that

All the sacrifice of ancestors might come
To something in me, like
A new beginnings or so many phrases
That resulted in a compact language

ii

Flowers somehow resembled
Galaxies and for a moment
I throbbed with the secret

Sweetness of life, there where
The sun begins to cut laterally
Across years like a Godlike figure
And possessing an imagination

iii

He leads me to dream about the future
Spring was a metaphor for change
And I wanted to badly to change

That I would eat the fruit of
The transformation and feel
April’s rain down my cheeks
For flowers of May and ideas
In June, which would change the world.