The Hack into Poetry

 

Sometimes to feel poetry

I imagine myself scaling the hills…

To stare at the naked sun. Or…

On a summer afternoon all I have to do

Is sit under the mango tree and watch the sky

Breathing its fever on little children, playing.

 

Poetry can be felt,

When I listen to the effervescent stirs of breakfast on an infant morning.

Hooked by red herring and bribed into joy by fried dumplings.

 

But these days, I flee poetry.

I die a death like the sun falling into its western grave;

Bleeding night upon the land;

Its fading yellow humming over the bloodshed,

Whispering a “sombre-orange good-bye” in the horizon.

This is my poetry.

 

My poetry can be seen in a walk from the Gaza Strip to the Stock Market.

Poetry tends to be a nihilist shitting in the sanctuary that I like to call:

Peace of Mind.

Poetry is madness.

The game of hide and seek behind sleepy eyes, flicking pens and empty papers.

 

And these days poetry plucks me from the clouds

And gingerly plants me in roses and thorns…

There I will blossom, sitting in my tears.

I will be pricked and choked.

Reviews

[V.B.]

Well, that's about it for me. Pretty sure you just found a pigeonhole for me to stuff myself into.

Poetry is a nihilist shitting in the sanctuary of peace of mind? Jesus. This is the kind of poem that shatters worlds. There might be a word somewhere out there to describe this amazing piece of work, but I am pretty sure I don't have access to it. Not even gonna try.

Thanks.

[Emily B]

I came back to this today. Just to meet the words again. And they are just as strong as they were on that other day. Even without the emotion of that moment.

You've changed the image.

[theludus]

It's very strong, not just a musing on musing on musing on musing stock, standard rant, but it's a journey this, even ventures into militant streets, and where so many poems of this nature fail so wonderfully, this is real and bleak, and quite sad and quite beautiful. sharp pacing too.

[Emily B]

You don't know. You can't know what these words meant today. And the image. If you had reached into that soul and pulled out his angst you couldn't have done any better.

These words:

And these days poetry plucks me from the cloudsAnd gingerly plants me in roses and thorns�There I will blossom, sitting in my tears.I will be pricked and choked.

Were the ones I didn't know how to describe. Thank you.