January 27, 2009

It's Not Monday

I wanted to let you know
the cemetery's closed,
but it's not Monday.
The names are flying,
dazzling flippity flops
and somersaults,
cherry blossoms
disembodied from their poets
who may or may not exist
somewhere beyond the words.
Dick and Jane
call for more than silliness.
Maybe I'm distracted.
It’s time for some tough love!
I have no answers.
That's exactly what I mean,
excluding the I.
No, one last thing:
Poetry is war.


Paul said...

That is very cool, original and different and well made poem. I like it.

e said...

That's exactly what I mean,
excluding the I.

Maybe 'coz you are meaningless?

I liked Grimoire and this one, even though I do not like poetry written in an informal, conversational style. Mainly because they tend to grow on you.

Agnes said...

Hello, Paul. Thanks for dropping in. I enjoy your blog. It's even better than Calgon.

My dear e, try not to worry. Pretend they're barnacles.

tws said...

what about the people who grow on you?

Sumedh Prasad said...

make love, not war! :)

Paul said...

"no, one" I love that bit where the mind caught between two meanings, right on the beat and perfectly set up. This kind of fusion of metaphysics and structural respect for the form of the idea infused with a kind of energy, a personality is one of my favourite kind of poems. In the end the belief structure, the morality of the idea disappears into the persuasion of its language. Sophistry perhaps, but of the most entertaining kind. We can bicker all day about whether it should be called actual magic occurring in the brain or just some linguistic trickery, but I contend that that is perfectly irrelevant. The truth of the phenomenon, the transcendent moment in which the artistry is realised, that is the point. In your poem it is a kind of disappearing act and I say. Bravo!