The Last Poets

The Last Poets

Between the potency of existence
And the silence of the soul of love
The voices that speaks is poetry
To look at the world the way
A man looks at a woman
With hunger and a vivid appreciation
For nature’s prosperity

The voice knows me
Like the way a ghost knows its shadow
Time riots in the music of my dance
Every generation I shall lend the voice
And poets will become the lover
I once was, carrying on the tradition
Of making light of the hidden beauty

Until you write so beautifully
The inside of your mind
Becomes a reflection of heaven
The heaven that belongs to the future
And the poetry of the Earth is never dead
I get a little poetic sometimes
When I realize we are perhaps

On the way to extinction, after all
We have become the alchemists
Of our own evolution, like the mother
Of communism, art can get lost
In translation, and even poetry can
Die, the literature of a more romantic age.

Some things poets seem to have forgotten

Some things poets seem to have forgotten

My Grandmother turned me on
Poetry and philosophy
She used to collect clippings
Of poems from the local newspaper

I read Tennyson, Yeats, Blake
In her book collection
She read those poems often
The pages were old and bent

Years later, I would write
My philosophy in poems
With my own clippings
Of Taoism, Buddhism, Sufism

And transhumanism, but I knew
By the time the singularity reached us
Poetry might have gone extinct
The poetry of the high-bow

Is now so inaccessible, without
Seemingly, any deeper meaning
The trend to write dead things
That passes as coldly as a poor display

Perhaps the future of poetry
Lies in the fringe verse
Of the downtrodden and in the
Privileged academic babble

Of poets who make art without
A true connection to the zeitgeist
I don’t need a Masters in Fine Arts
In poetry or creative writing

To feel entitled, but women like my grandmother
Will die out, millennials are making
Other choices, they don’t need to
Be starving artists to get that poetry is dead

And even the idea of becoming a writer
I once had a roommate who became
A famous journalist, maybe he
Knew something then that I only realize now.

The Poetic Dilemma

Words answer my April
Words answer my every month
Every state, has a Window or a Minister

My feeling are of Two bodies
My soul and its liberty persist
I know it then, by the numb look

Of Neighbors, and the lost delight
Of Lovers, where is the Bee and blush?
For it is not yet Spring – and I am lone

Language is my last successor of pain
I am trapped in its Vitality
Self-Obliterating is the choir

Who that visits the Night is my poetic chore
Words answer my April
I make words for every hour

There is no Education in poetry
Only pure-feeling, as ashamed as courtesans
Here I contrast all currencies.