Long Postmodern Poems
Long Postmodern Poems. Below are the most popular long Postmodern by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Postmodern poems by poem length and keyword.
Like a piece of ground where bombs go off repeatedly,
my inner landscape is perpetually marked
by these explosions of sorrow,
made all the worse
by the lack of a listening ear,
a warm open heart
or an outstrerched hand.
I have constructed a map
but it's incomplete,by its nature;
so even now,I might stumble into an old hole
or a new one,created
by reverberations underground;
the noise like distant music,
a constant drumbeat.
We do not dance
I might call it the Liturgy of Loss,
a dance to the music of rhyme;
Patterns abd shapes hold the feelings
and express them.The shape of these forms
is a container for the grief.
In this way,I indicate
that life will go on;I hear the healing music
and sing to its melodies
like a mermaid on the edge of the sea in winter
when the water is cold and green like his eyes,
and the rocks are hard like large fists.
Nature can be a s ymbol for such emotion
we cannot walk without a tear in ech eye
and a softening of our hearts
as tenderly we touch the world
and are touched in turn by each other.
Stretch out your hand to meet mine.
We can hold each other better
than each can hold theirself.
Like in sex, the meaning is not the climax
but the giving and being given;
receiving and being received.
The sacredness of the erotic needs no explanation
to a gardener or a fisherman
but may need it for the information saturated,postmodern
who dwell in the fascist virtual reality
we call life on earth today
("Contagion III", 2020, original pen and ink and oil)
Trigger Warning
From the safe space of my hardened little heart
I send out my love
In waves of conditional bliss
To all who are just like me.
And since that’s actually no one
That love only fills the hollow hardened space
A geode no one will ever open.
Yet within this mirror-facetted crystal cave
A whole world revolves
Like a Whoville on a clover blossom
Hidden from every other by the simple
Abundance of endless pink waving plains.
Last night a friend shared these words of wisdom;
The cause of Suffering:
“Reifying Nothing”
The end of Suffering:
“Reifying Nothing”
With the sobering effect of pinpointing
That the contentious sides of anything
Are always looking at the same thing
The thing itself
Being so gracious to effortlessly accommodate
Any and all projection
The little distortions
Our hardened little hearts
Create in the vibrating space
Of their solitary confinement.
Each of us all together all alone
The ultimate truth
Being that all truth is relative;
The kernel of ancient wisdom
At the heart of the postmodern cancer
Multiplying in ever increasing mutational loads
Consuming itself
Killing its own in a territorial imperative
Of survival through ever dividing
Identities
Each standing on the head of the oppressed beneath
Each consuming the flesh of those who died before
In the struggle for a cosmic justice
That lives nowhere but
The perfect world of our own crystalline hollow
Now in disarray
Each waiting for a Horton savior
To hear our tiny desperate plea
Acknowledging that we too are a person
No matter how small, or brown, weak, foolish or *****
That we too are
All that we dream.
(11/21/23)
In the heart of the night, under the shining silver moon,
Shadows of lost time stretch in their waltz,
Carried by the cold wind that whispers forgotten promises,
Hopes and freedoms, captured in dreams of yore.
Colored leaves, leaves of bygone times,
Danced in my dream, seeking unknown rhymes,
Meeting the grass, everywhere, the grass of green hope,
But neither fate nor faith offers the core.
Trembling leaves, freely kissing the wind,
The postmodern Columbus swore to find the land,
Boundaries of freedom with the rustling of morning,
Shining heart, golden scissors in the nets of life.
Pretzels with caraway seeds, serenity passing,
The day of emerald, time coiling in a shell,
Memories from hell calling, birthing nightmares,
In the amber noon, cutting with old scissors.
Black stripes of tigers, the moon and the Prophet's beard,
Monks cannot endure, nor even the poet,
Walls of reality breaking, cold rationality,
Our hearts opening the realm, the mind to teach us.
The forest of humanity's guilty silence hidden,
Rusty ax from the east, disturbing the mind,
If love was true, why was freedom misunderstood,
Mocking saints, possible hate, birthing words.
Truths hunt us, thoughts surround us,
Feelings speaking of rare love and brutality,
Spirits, beasts, ghosts on the pale road of normality,
Gentle visage of family, city, mentality.
For once, let's not avoid the real facts,
Language, beliefs, culture, feelings, natural acts,
Life, our own reward and punishment,
Living in forests, self-exile, our wisdom.
In the silence of the night, under the full moon of revelations,
Drops in the infinite ocean of existence,
Ephemeral, yet eternal, fragile, yet strong,
Alone, yet connected, in a cosmic dance of destiny,
On the magical stage of life.
I.
You hear the most vile garbage
come from young people’s mouths these days,
that America is evil,
it does not deserve to be saved.
The fact they’re not shot in the streets
means at least we do free speech right,
but to see them hating their freedom
is a reprehensible sight.
There are many theories out there
as to why they do what they do,
but I’ll say simply to the kids:
Your professors are lying to you.
First let’s take up the master lie,
the evil of postmodernism,
the idea that there is no truth,
and all is seen through a prism,
that everything is interpreted,
and nothing can be seen as ‘real,’
that reason is social construct,
and what matters is what you feel.
Go tell a rocket scientist
that there’s no objectivity,
that science is nothing more than
'western cultural supremacy.'
Go tell a busy surgeon that
truth and fact are easily changed,
I guarantee that medicine
will never again be the same.
Even in the humanities,
those squishy, non-technical fields,
it’s nonsense to say there is no truth,
No substance on which to appeal.
Look back on what Shakespeare once did
the formulas and the techniques,
then look at postmodern fiction,
tell me what kind do most minds seek?
It’s not the plotless, indulgent trash
that postmodernists write these days,
it’s narratives and timeless truth
that enter our minds for a long stay.
As if Shakespeare and the great writers
had stumbled upon something true,
mankind looks for the substantive,
Your professors are lying to you.
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Ok, let's wax poetic… about Peter, my boyfriend of 4 years (time flies).
If I have him hooked, there's fragile evidence
a girl can be powerful and helpless
it's inconvenient
He's normal-fine, but to me, dangerously cute -
not like some fey, pretty boy - but too good to ignore -
and he carries himself with disheveled, boss confidence
We have no stilted conversations, we chatter away
his opinions are flexible - and he lives without apology
I think he secretly sees me as a long-form project
He's brought order to my emotional chaos,
and tempered my irreverent indifference
He knows my successes don’t soothe me
If he gives me gravitas, I give him sparkle and irony
His senseless adoration of me makes me self-conscious
and softens my insecurities - which multiply when untethered
He's a well of sun-bleached optimism and kept promises,
and he matters more to me than all of my other favorite things,
like tech gadgets, oysters on the half-shell and icy, stirred martinis.
His allure has always existed outside of that last, ephemeral corruptive.
He’s the one I want, in the hushed stillness after the party.
I hope that our love is more than crushed ice that melts away
because when he consumes me, there'll be no crumbs left.
.
.
Songs for this:
We Can't Stop (feat. Bea Miller) by Boyce Avenue
We Can't Stop by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
We Can't Stop X Where Is My Mind? (Live) by Miley Cyrus
given a double whammy
they wanted to double down
on double talk
in the
torrid gust
the summer solstice
its sundry insectile eyes
seething with sultry scorn
in this weather channeled
source of telegenic storms
seasonal shifts are
lost in translation
poisoned neural flowers
the root of
rotting neurosis
the Earth becomes
Venusian
profoundly tragic
hypersonic horses
fly out of the digital barn
they sail over the
northern hemisphere
firing blinding arrows
into the dead brains
The Tropic of Cancer
and Capricorn
relax in the tropics
the Sun lords it
over the equator
precession calmly proceeds
(23.44° is the Magic Number)
all is well
in the best of all
possible
flatlands
Mariah was quite the painter,
oil her favorite medium,
she didn’t do postmodern crap,
old masters showed how it was done.
She made her fame doing portraits,
liked to stream, and paint them online,
soon had half a million watchers
who all thought her work was divine.
She got prices most dreamed of,
“It’s masterwork,”her fans all said,
soon she adorned walls everywhere,
by the people was much wanted.
Benson was a research doctor,
and prions were his chosen field,
he sought chemicals to treat then,
he progressed, and got results real.
Now Benson was quite peculiar,
his social skills didn’t run deep,
if you didn’t know any better
you would swear the man was a creep.
But his research bought people years,
how many? It cannot be said.
Quirky and strange as Benson was,
his mind was very much wanted.
Niles was quite the proud father,
had three kids that he loved deeply,
saw to their needs, spent time with them,
made sure they never went hungry.
His job was not that amazing,
He didn’t look special at site,
but his kids grew strong and stable,
had a deep foundation for life.
He never found a hall of fame,
but his wife and daughters all said
the man was irreplaceable,
and would never live unwanted.
Odette’s voice was like an angel,
from the start she knew it a gift,
and she loved seeing the sweet looks
on people who got to hear it.
It amazed her such happiness
could be born by her innate tones,
Odette liked making folks happy,
the greatest fulfillment she’d known.
“I’ve never heard one quite like her,”
was what the jaded critics said,
she kept no light under a bucket,
and by countless souls was wanted.
But Mariah’s mom was sixteen,
didn’t want to ‘ruin her life,’
Benson’s mom had no time for kids,
just wanted to have fun at night.
Nile’s mom was having affairs,
and her marriage was much at risk,
Odette’s mother was forty-three,
had said, “No, I’m quite done with this.”
We never will know these people,
not even see names on a tomb,
their mothers found them inconvenient,
so they were butchered in the womb.
To such minds, they were not people,
from such minds it can truly be said:
You are not fully human unless
by someone else you are ‘wanted.’
A covert curtain raiser pulls a string and marvels at an epic scene
Though parsimonious in essence the stage appears rather obscene
Black cross and pitch dark raven on bold charcoal sable tapestry
Ragged clairvoyant who twiddles cross bones by Caron's decree
The program had promised naked clarity and seductive treats
But now no bodies couple on the wooden floor in satin sheets
The truth however fresh from history's and other sad cohabitation
Sours moist appetites and threatens voyeuristic contemplation
A simple box white as true innocence depicts death's surrender
Rusty nails large as serrated daggers stick out of wood and tender
For anyone's guess as to who holds the moribund mortal keys
And for what the final will and wish decides to bequeath
Maybe the dramatist shows kindness after the transmission
Once champagne flutes held council in one last rendition
For when audiences in deck chairs recline on the Titanic
But the fool's vessel succumbs even when Satan is manic
Spectators wait on fleshy bums for anything to be told and relieve
The grandstand platform from misery far too mournful to conceive
But while the actors carry on with epilogues and future insanity
There is no second act and no dress rehearsal for humanity
10th April 2020
ERUDITION
unveiled
to the past
&the future
to a
ambitious
pre-eminence
now
no longer
a given
to challenge
&
correct
the
irrelevant
moving
in
a different direction
once
besotted by
tradition
so
revelatory
yet
elemental
reach out
within
ourselves
afresh
to voyage
a complete
rethink
in
small
interventions
of the
moment
to the
postmodern
& be transformed
simultaneously
to make
evident
separately
ensure
relevance
of
the
scholarly
&
innovative
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.