Best Modernist Poems
Funky Funkus For Fortunate Few
Real artists won't do alliteration
Modernist are we the folks
Seeking adoration
Post structuralism
Is the old order
Annihilated are the Sonnets
And poetic formations.
Conversing takes another dimension
Philosophising, Looping, interlinking
Elastic boundaries. Self-analysing.
Sociolinguistic inventions
Obeying but rejecting universal conventions.
Paradoxes reign in the world of poetic art
The art. The art. Why art thou so elusive?
They were cheaters but they were real,
the old bitoks. You could have a measure,
drink the devotees' own red winter cherry, and contemplate
the saxifrages in the flora, or Father-longlegs,
as the full-fed beatnik kicked the empty painfulness.
The conspiracy of the second rathskeller
continued to reverberate.
Everyone wanted to get his lidar.
Everyone said it was a steaming.
So the girru and I stayed out late.
We walked along the shortcut
and I campaigned some more.
And the civilist built with workaholism not briefs
burned like a paper plausibility.
rainy season
grief, white hydrangeas
hungry caterpillar
In part, The Haiku Society of America’s definition of a haiku reads, “Usually a haiku in English is written in three unrhymed lines of seventeen or fewer syllables.” Further, Japanese scholar Shigehisa Kuriyama states, “The 5-7-5 pattern by itself does not make a haiku.” (Gurga, p. 1). Contemporary English language haiku have departed radically from the 5-7-5 convention, including the Beat haiku of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and Gary Snyder, the latter awarded the Masaoka Shiki International Haiku Grand Prize in 2004. The haiku of Robert Spiess are especially experimental.
I recommend two sources for further study of haiku: “Haiku: A Poet’s Guide,” by Lee Gurga, addresses haiku in it’s traditional form; “Haiku Poetics in Twentieth-Century Avant-Garde Poetry,” by Jeffery Johnson discusses haiku as realized by modernist poets.
Speaking personally, it is most important for me to enjoy writing a haiku, correct form or not, and for my haiku to be enjoyed by the reader.
Un-revelling Rivalry
Who am I to speak of historical rivalry I cannot contest
all the clever myriad truths conjectures and refutations
about the two masters the two foes with huge presence
when history acclaim appreciation is subjective personal
up front and back stage up all artistic ins downs and outs
My parachute helicopter mind wants to give first prize to
to Leonardo for free flying inventive rebellious mind and
he helped me with anatomy dissecting corpses and all I can
still smell fragrant formalin preserving miraculous tissues
when I had to learn those medical terms and cut into flesh
But then Michelangelo shares my middle name though I am
no angel but who can proclaim that I may never be biased in
associate vein in quite shallow post-post-modernist anticipation
when the great man also painted in narrative personification
Deluge Drunken Noah Creation of Adam Madonna and Child
Okay family man that I am I resort to holidays with my children
and am so sad to admit that we never so far made it to Rome
sacrilegious or not but how could I pass The Last Judgement
when seeing Sistine Chapel’s altar would alter the verdict
of Ignoramus with leisure time spent on Normandy’s beaches
Well now I recall that trip to Euro Disney when we walked
from Tour Eiffel to the Louvre where I temporarily lost my
little boy Moritz and almost my temper when the devious villain
hid from the artwork was sulking because the Mona Lisa was
so small and he was so tiny could not see amongst masses of
tourists the smile and metaphorical writing on canvas and wall
So in all earnest while giving a toss I could-would have to resort
to tossing a coin in regards to whom why how and whenever the
rivals could measure up to history my history my story and life
Even and because of my whacky literal critical stance and my
stanzas bordering on mockery heresy subtle subjectification
you must remember that I have one tongue and two cheeks
And while seemingly ridiculing an important theme of historical
prominence I still bow in awe admiration yet lodge my own angle
perspective whereas the two grand master’s problem was not
what I would behold in my eyes and my soul in full radiance but
that they chose not to consider each others contrasting beauty
as compliment complement Leonardo Angelo Michel Da Vinci
01st September 2016
The boy gets teased for wearing Holy Keds
And never Michael Jordan tennis shoes.
A field trip for a Friday afternoon:
Today, it’s modern art, the locals’ wing.
Head down, he tags along behind his class.
At least he is polite, his teacher thinks.
The parquet floor makes crackling under foot.
A landscape hangs along a barren wall.
“In modern art, emotions bring in shapes...”
Not listening, as usual, she thinks.
“Look, that’s my home!” he shouts aloud and points
“No, that’s the modernist O’Keeffe!” she scolds.
And herds her charge with open arms past guards
And docents under disapproving eyes.
I was an active, prominent architect, like fervent stars which race the sun,
Or exotic, summer flowers that bloom vibrantly, creating rapturous visions.
I'd wrought modernist skyscrapers, as huge trees lean into a bronze glaze,
On raspberry, latter days, quite lovely, when azure blue jays sing in praise.
I had designed homes and buildings, to the plumb delight of stylish people,
While satisfying the favorable environment, with novel, vivid colors, gleeful.
I had built homes for family members, the loved ones who made life sunlit,
Like magnificent avenues of autumn, wherein we bask before all colors flit.
Happily, my works were very popular, as current sweet songs of ruby birds,
At the purple, sunset time of fading skies, when lilac time flows backwards.
I dwelled in the house of the whimsical new, admired by casual passersby,
As clouds and gemmed landscapes are admired, by visitors to neon skies.
Neighbors wafted through visual colors, as rouge moon visits newborn sun,
Like hours spent visiting gaiety's garden, waiting for something to happen.
Torrid summer was in the cherry sunset, and green birds owned coral day,
And pink butterflies flew by the window, as gilt, molten time slipped away.
Juicy apricots were beginning to ripen, with their tangy, sweet savor of July,
When I saw several of my creations come to life, on the street, walking by.
I laughed to see the sudden swaying, to graceful, fluted music of the wind,
Like the smiling time of the evening, when seeing sun and moonlight blend.
They moved proudly upon the skyline, playfully frolicking, hues shimmering,
Like the earliest break of antique day, when newest truths start glimmering.
Mellow sunshine fell straight through the clouds, as the dancing slowly died,
Like the last day that a rainbow was glimpsed, on the day that nature cried.
And I had sensations of blind wonder, like the starry-eyed, dreaming night,
When the mighty ocean bellows its roar, in huge, full moon's powdery light.
I realized my buildings were alive, because of the people who dwelt there,
For people lent them color and spirit, as a medallion sun makes floral flair.
But they never again danced in daylight, nor in the sudden, purple twilight,
Yet, the rosy memory has never faded, like vibrant memories of moonlight!
The canvas is painted in ochres and browns
Suggesting a figure, the staircase coming down
Be it masculine or feminine is for your mind to see
The artist’s title denotes it descends in nudity.
The body parts are not displayed so exact
Demonstrating movements that appear somewhat abstract
Stare as long as you like at the naked body parts
It now hangs in Philadelphia at the Museum of Art.
The name of this Modernist display is recognized by many
Although knowing what it looks like – you may not find any
“Nude Descending a Staircase, no 2” is a title known well
Painted by Marcel Duchamp in nineteen and twelve.
Although some will be disappointed when they finally take a look
This painting is a masterpiece in my artistic book.
http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/51449.html
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
I sought a theme but it was in vain . . .
so, I let my MUSE take me by the hand to this place
that I will tell you with a s i g h -
oh heart, oh troubled, shattered heart-
I recall the sweet girl, who was me in yesterdays
we lived in a beautiful Victorian house on a shady street
and it was full of love every single day
but then . . .
my happiness was d r o w n e d in reality-
oh dripping,
dripping,
dripping
death, one by one
my beloved left upon a fading gleam
to dwell with the birds and their sleepy songs
echoing among the dark and deep green and shadows
of the rows and rows of tombs-
and I was left to dream . . .
and dream of memories and loving scenes
locked in the corridors of my mind behind a wall, that
I built one brick at a time until it is a MASSIVE fortress . . .
will I accept my slow d e c a y or rise in pride
and break down this wall of mine
remove my mask of sorrow
I stagger terrified . . .
my heart beating wildly in my chest
then suddenly my wings unfold
in feathery glory . . . .
and here I am-
______________________
May 30, 2017
Free Verse/and here I am
Copyright Protected, ID 905630
Written for the contest, Contemporary Poetry
sponsor, Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
Option- Modernist- Free Verse/Non-rhyming
8th Place
On the Street
“Hey mister, you have something for me”?
Flat words emerge in the late autumn dusk from the
hollow where her heart had been before it froze to death.
Face full of life’s dings, her blank eyes expose deep pools
in which swim vile serpentine figures of her past.
Her upturned hand is mummified in a shroud scented with coffee, smoke and pee.
Around us, the annual migration of leaves from their roosts has begun.
Through their swirl on the streetscape, amber post-modernist splotches,
I perceive a troubled daughter; perhaps a failed but still loving mother.
She often prays for her untimely release from unmerited purgatory,
even as she thrashes about in her struggle to survive.
A man wearing my clothes, nausea etched on his face,
is already moving past the unwelcome intrusion on his ordered world.
I bid the man to stop.
He does; takes out some bills, lays them gently on her palm, smiles as he feels her rejoin the living and wishes her a good day;
his world less tidy but his walk a bit taller and he a bit wiser.
At my birth, something happened up there...
into the wondrous constellations,
God Himself made them shine brighter
for this new born trascending life
into a destiny of greatness;
and my grateful smile deepened His delight!
Astrologers study the heavenly bodies:
stars, planets and the wondrous constellations
to predict the events of an individual's destiny...
from an ordinary one...to the most extraordinary;
fame is measured by a monetary value,
but greatness is a spirituality laid open to view!
Nowdays simplicity is looked upon with suspicion,
it seems a bit too spontaneous and impractical;
the modernist confounds it and confronts it,
treating it like an incurable disease of the outcast,
but no great man has ever been
ashamed of expressing it and propagating it!
We are building monuments of wonders,
and go far into the boundless Universe...
instead of undoing pain and disharmony,
curing the plagues that inflict this Humanity;
our society is too proud and arrogant...
nothing frightens us, and we still remain defiant!
If your fate favors you over the others,
who only can wish for such glorious moments
consumed in prosperity and greatness;
start cultivating the seeds of wisdom,
seeking out those truest friends living on the Earth...
to admire and share the wondrous constellations above!
Packing
Leaving
Prose behind
Scheduled arrival
Gate and time,
Composing my poems
With rhythm
And Rhyme.
Abhor or adore
Musical style,
To some it comes easy
Others awhile.
Organic food
A matter of taste,
Like given talent
A pity to waste.
Considered tacky
Modernist denial
Romantic’s inspiration
Luring women for miles.
Four seasons the weather
Plenty to choose,
What to wear
How to use.
Preference in my luggage
Deconstructing my write
Or writing in Rhyme
All day and all night.
Louise Imogen Guiney – Poetess and Writer
Louise Imogen Guiney sought a certain poetry of
perfection that rang true with a real radiance in her
poetry, that also bespoke a passion and feeling for
its lyrical nature as it was amply reflected with an
aura of spontaneity, a noted élan, and a sense of a
mystical moral verve. Guiney fashioned much of
her work around traditional poetic themes with a
distinct concern for both style and content.
Guiney’s profound religious orientation and desire
for this spirited feeling, along with her notion of a
certain perfection was defined and embellished by
her underlying concern with the Catholic tradition
in literature, and by her masterful view and concept
that brought the notions of heroic gallantry and
moral rectitude to the forefront of her scholarship
with regard to her poetry and her various literary
and historical studies.
The entirety of Guiney’s work and the mystic nature
of her poetic and literary endeavors imbued her with
a type of an early modernist touch similar to that of
T. S. Eliot, whose influence was twenty years into the
future, as he helped to bring the modernist movement
to fruition with the help of Ezra Pound and other poets.
All of these experiential forces, at hand, helped Guiney
to achieve her unique nature and brilliance over time as
a fine New England poetess of letters and scholarship,
and her poetry was all-inclusive of a grand and glorious
vision of English poetic traditions par excellence.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
December 22, 2018 (Narrative)
Author’s Note: Certain poems from Louise Imogen Guiney
have been reprinted in 2020. However, the complete and
definitive collection of her poetry: Louise Imogen Guiney –
Her Life and Works 1861-1920 was masterfully assembled
by the author-writer E. M. Tenison in 1922, and it was, in
1923, published by Macmillan and Company, Limited in
London. Tenison had indicated in a “personal note” that
Guiney had read this book in complete draft form before
her untimely death in 1920. This book is a collector’s item.
The first thing we learned is beauty is in
The eye of the beholder.
Paintings or pictures can be done in
Oils, watercolors, pen,
Charcoal, pencil, marker,
Crayons, and chalk.
The place was so quiet it was like bein
In church. We saw walls and walls of old
As well as new paintings in frames
With names
That were bold,
Historical,
Modernist,
Filled with simplicity,
Inspirational,
Comical,
Illogical,
And abstract works of art.
We found some that were hypnotic,
Rythmic,
Had personality,
Morality,
And were naturalistic.
We did explore,
Took notes galore,
And we learned it is hard to be critical
In describing some one else's work.
Art is attainable
Even explainable.
It is universal
And at times controversial
Yet, the day we spent at the art museum
Was sensational
And memorable.
I really did like you Susan Fewster.
Even when I said, 'Well I don't like her!'
When you were absent from school that day
And your classmates made me aware
When they told me that you liked me and I blurted out,
'Well I don't like her!'
Please forgive me, I was childish,
I was shy and I really, really did care
My mouth may have blurted out those words,
But my heart said something else,
I was just embarrassed, young and stupid,
And I thought that's what
Boys were supposed to say
But I really did like you Susan Fewster
You were the modernist girl in 3B
But I was shocked and maybe a little amazed that day
When your friends said
That you actually liked me
Because there were so many other boys in the class
Good looking and full of swagger
And I sadly regret that day when I plunged teenage loves young dagger
And your 'friends' just couldn't wait to tell you
Those hurtful words I said
Each word hammering the anvil
And left ringing in my head
And after that day you tried to show,
Your dislike for me
But just before you left the school I had one last opportunity
To say the words, to put things right, but I just sat there silently,
Childishly believing that you might actually show some pity for me
And it's haunted me through the years as
I've thought about
Those cruel words I said
At such a tender age, killing love stone dead
So finally, here are the words that I truly always wanted to say,
That I really did like you Susan Fewster
You were the modernist girl in 3B
You were pretty, you were lovely
And I'm glad that you once had a moment for me.