Decline of American Poetry #Wordsmatter #NationalPoetryMonth


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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.

Like the Writing on your Hand


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Like the Writing on your Hand

Do you think it’s plausible
Just wait a second, for a moment
That we take pieces of each other

Forever influenced, eternally merged?
If I swallow your poetry
Does it thirst and settle
And make rapture

In my voice, as if forever?
Do I carry a part of you
Your narrative, meme, genes?

I think my inner Korean voice
Can attest to it, scandalously odd?
While no one is watching
There’s no one to hear

The echo of me dying
To the new one I am now
After knowing of your existence

That thingess of absence
It goes and sucks like space
But space-time is permeable
To gorgeous quotations

And that is why
I have reincarnated a piece of you
With me forever

Do you think it’s plausible?
Take a guess, run away, write
It on your hand.

Lost worlds of writers & being


DCF 1.0
Our words are lost worlds
where we may never come again!
a thousand fragments for

each person, thoughts that pass
everything will pass, said the Seer
the boats inscribe our circles

the fish lead us to our new world
the day there’s not a single gull
the world will sink, in change

hang on, words will leave you
memory’s roots will drift
across an inkless body, your hands

which once yearned for flutes in frost
for flowers on branches of other worlds
will find being and form in

the imagination that comes from
another kind of life, musical torture
for language, that is never fully at home

to express spirit, to re-live all that has
been lived, and which can never fully
come again, alone in the sun

we are all unique, you write:
i am the self like all other selves
that draws beauty in the night.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Ocean-50422805