Future Poetry


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In this life, there’s no time to regret
Time is going faster than ever
Victories turned inside out

Defeats made for modifying learning strategies
The beaten champions may be sobbing
But that’s not us, we have always
Been after something different
The divine adverb, the supernal noun

That’s not something most people can relate to
We fall in love to diagram the sentence
Of love stuck in the mouth of youth

That’s the feeling of being alive forever
It’s being part of a symbolic immortality
While tonight, no poetry can serve
The syntax of our new rendition
We’ll reincarnate a few times each decade

In order to keep up with the singularity
While words remain the primitive way
Organics communicate, there will be

A pure wilfulness of connection akin
To thought-information-light-speed
There poetry will be a dreaming of how
The common language once sounded like
A beautiful rich tone of slow motion existence.

New Words Advent


Photograph courtesy of : http://www.deviantart.com/art/Into-Dust-502341255

 

35

 

Language is a flirtation

With flexibility, the mind

Empowers the image

The image empowers the

 

Alphabet, the energy

Is a conference of belonging

There is no buzzword in poetry

Poets reside in the

 

Chatroom of the spirit

It’s a captcha of lingering

Imagination on the brink of

Extinction, a cloud computing

 

Of beauty, a purist busking

Not for profit, so unlike

The Affluenza of our times

The stark money divide

 

Poetry is an algorithm unsolved

Forever like a kind of tourism

The soul’s App for bromance

A buzz for civiliation’s

 

Gratitude and ruin, simultanely

Depicting the carjked destiny

Of utopia in dystopia

Englihs is the most flexible

 

If adopting mandarin and Sanskrit

The baggravation of always

Being stuck between worlds

Or the realization that

 

Every city is a homogenized urban

Simulation of what it means

To be alive in 2020, the breakdown

Of new world dilemmas like

 

A post antibiotic world or

Environmental migrants scrambling

For new homes, new identities.

Debt to Language


81

Words are a blameless hum
Language is insufficient ultimately
Flowers of through that float
With petals of fluff and wings of air

The thread, that has no needle
Laughter, that has no conclusion
Words are the mischief of myth
A whistle that imitates a bird

Knots of identity that do not fit quite right
Words zigzag and often hurt
And dream of something perhaps unreal
An expedition with no end

Only stories to relate us to the wild
Words defy topography, mask intent
There are no end-time mnemonics for alphabets
They cling to our duality and separate

You from me, us from the universe –
I pity the poets who can only taste
Their own subtle liquor in one language
I for one, am a poor translator of the human soul.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Unikorn-412093929

For our Tale is not Linguistically Interpretable


53

How to keep silence, when every moment
Is as holy as a word dreamt upon the page?
At the zenith of poetry where

Metaphysics becomes a living necessity –
There, I shall dwell for a few weeks
Between the scavenging of hope

And the arms of my loving wife
Anguish was a revolution
How to keep the silence loose

When every moment bursts forth
In the beauty of the King of Kings
The place where aspiration travels

Off-shore, to alphabetic neutrality
A transparency of how ancient language
Leaves its mark on the spirit’s page

Sanskrit melding into mandarin
With an undertone of rolling Gaelic.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Paradise-404652006