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.
I thought poetry is
-name of Mesopotamia which was the first civilization to emerge in human history
-ancient cave peoples surviving life struggle
I thought poetry is
-an immortal love story of Yousuf- Zulekha, Shirin-Farhad, Laila-Majnu or Romeo-Juliet
-a telephonic or open love conversation of smiling postmodern girls
-drying wet colorful clothes of beloved in the courtyard of the house
-haring of beloved with tuberose garland before a mirror
I thought poetry is
-lizards chirping from the deserted house; cockroach flying
-quarrelsome cats in the black dark or barking dogs
-the struggle of mosquito for human blood
-traveling of the arrogant indecent animals all over the night
I thought poetry is
-thrilling venturous ghostly stories of J. K. Rowling
-self-expression of known-unknown writers
-unspoken tale of a war-wounded soldier
-the regret of the thousands of dead soldiers
-the unwritten fantasy of an isolated poet
-the lonely guitar or ektara of dead singers
I thought poetry is
-without reel tie an independent flying of a kite in the sky
-in the blue sky sovereign flapping of birds
-movement of invisible winds everywhere
-hearing story of fairytale crossing of green forest
I thought poetry is
-handmade airing of newly married girl to a new groom in lunch time
-dyed hands of nubile girls by mehndi,
-captivating sounds of jingling anklet and kamarband of dancing damsels
I thought poetry is
-classic music of Pandit Ravi Shankar
-immortal tune of Ustad Bismillah Khan's shehnai
-compilation of humanitarian lyrics of the legend Bob Marley
-heart touching reciting of the Holy Quran of Qari Abdul Basit
I thought poetry is
-unforgettable philosophical discussion of Socrates with his disciples
-the philosophic lineage of learning such as Socrates-Plato-Aristotle
-immortal scientific creations of Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Hawking
I thought poetry is
-unremitting prayer or worship of any prevailed religion devotee to get heaven
-inhuman history of bombing on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki or brutality of 1st or 2nd World War
These all are just my thinking,
my thinking is free
on my path
but poetry is poetry,
more than any thinking, many more;
on its path
Poetry is independent fully
-June 27, 2019 Chattogram
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.’
Celebrating the Adventure of Advent
Universal elegy grieves and yet embraces shifts of paradigm
New beginnings consciousness initiates comprehends and thus proceeds from
Illusion’s delusion collusions misconceptions in the irritating
Vortex whirlpool immanent void of false containment
Enlightenment modern postmodern retro visionary futuristic aspirations
Resound in dialectical rebirth rejuvenation germinate constructive
Sense meaning reflect serenity’s tentative confidence that the
Agony of climate change greed warfare ignorance destructive apathy
Liberates fusion confusion necessitates Aquarian communication of
Antagonism’s polar opposites contradictions complements
Cycles spheres of influence of grave repression gravitate
Revolve resolve with pushing pulling moons in metaphorical
Orbital mental psychological initiation shape incidences
Synchronicities collateral communal reason feeling responsibility
Transformation of the global madness inhumanity conjoins
Idealism and the darker side’s fallacies of fabrication
Conspiracy of muted spirit silence violation fade away transform to novel script
Communication courses discourses concur in co-operation
Obvious obscurity in the blip of human race’s evolution delimits
Limitations iron cages hopes for new time place of reason beyond
Laissez-faire and hippie psychedelic stream of consciousness afar from
Anarchy self-righteous slavery rebellion mindlessness
Big oppressive bangs big brother’s obliterating over-information with
Onslaught of technology fail and falter when simplicity and esoteric
Rationale comprise enhance encompass the necessary world view shifts
Ascent and ever changing climax revitalizes humanness thus gifts
Truth deriving comprehension from ‘objective’ communal subjectivity with
Intuition insight inclination outside from the rigid boxed conformity
Order may be found again in the chaos of our time of misrepresented bedlam
New Age Aquarius delivers acts upon fresh constellation contemplates the Universe
Kai Michael Neumann
07th June 2016
The world shared some turmoil; what went wrong?
that was the question, deplored the argument;
It’s all about Pope Benedict’s address
given to his old university at Regensburg
in Germany where he had taught –
a number of years with total commitment,
genuine dialogue and contribution.
His theology speaks about history and faith
its rationality and intellectual debate
meant to participate without any regret;
with relationship between faith and intellect.
The darkness of a new episode or story to tell,
barbarism that the Pope fears in this generation;
perhaps abuse and neglect of fundemental values
that’s growing decadence of moral continuation.
It’s how he sees now the postmodern Europe,
in different ways where there are revelations;
a climate of relativism and shared influence
secularism in the service of separation.
What’s binding in his theological rejoinder
church’s original faith expressions and traditions
a cultural product of time shared with modern trust
revisited and highlighted with modern ideas.
Plato and Aristotle are indeed proponents
of Greek philosophical tradition;
their influence in the medieval Latin formation
shared some dialogue along with revelation.
What was exactly quoted in Pope Benedict’s address
referring to Manuel II Palaeologus
“show me just what Muhammad brought that was new,
and there you will find things only evil and inhuman,
such as his command to spread by the sword
the faith he preached.”
There’s a vivid brusqueness in this statement,
however, he explained between faith and reason;
the Muslim world reacted with anger and conclusion,
that Pope Benedict had denounced the Qu’ran in its existence.
Not in his own personal view how he said it,
without any polemics to pounce on its evil meaning
Qu’ran as an unmediated word of God;
the message of the Prophet it descended –
on Muhammad; it came from God.
Hostility continued to draw the line of division,
A process of theological need and understanding
With shared witness and value in today’s relativism,
Pope Benedict had reason completely credible.
Philosophers, down the ages,
Have strenuously tried
To figure out language:
Their numerous narratives polarize
Into two Grand narratives, a binary:
Language is referential / differential.
This binary has yielded numerous derivatives.
On the referential side, for instance,
There’s the view that language is an instrument,
As advanced notably by Aristotle, Bhamaha and Dandin.
On the differential side, we have
Saussure’s notion:
Language is a system of differences
(without any positive terms).
Derrida, for his part, widened it:
Language is infinitely differential,
As suggested by his coinage differance,
which implies: language is
slippery, radically unstable,
which, in turn, gave rise to
mind-boggling derivatives
in this postmodern world!
Some of them are: Derrida’s (own) freeplay
of the (autonomous) sign,
Bloom’s (willful) misreading,
And Lyotard’s (incommensurable) language games
(which we all play in this postmodern space willy-nilly)
All these differences have led
Often to acrimonious disputes,
Couched, of late, in a language
that abounds in ambiguity
and neatly underpinned by illogic!
The predicament of these philosophers (old or new) is:
What they and we all observe
is not language-in-itself,
but language as seen by us—
which is similar to what Heisenberg said about nature!
These disputes remind us
of the dispute among the six characters,
in the age-old parable,
which reportedly originated in the Indian Rigveda.
(but now found in several belief systems).
It’s the parable of the six men
(as narrated by John Godfrey Saxe)
Wherein the characters tried
To figure out an elephant,
which, unfortunately, none of them
Had the faculty to see:
So, one called it soft and mushy;
for another it was like a snake;
for the third, it was fan-like,
And so on.
Thus, they “disputed loud and long,
Though each was partly in the right
…and all were [rightly] in the wrong!"
***
The modern gleaners
Postmodern standardized cities
ubiquitous high rises of steel and glass
concrete jungles of commerce
of buying and selling
trading moving vibration
amidst the turmoil of the bustling day
are the invisible ones
The modern gleaners that make their way
in the shadows beyond displays
quiet slow moving stealth like
modern gypsies in tattered rags
pushing shopping carts through busy streets
overflowing mosaic of plastic bottles
Old men old women mothers with their young
bent over curbs of stacks of trash
these are our modern gleaners
from the rustic farms of yore
into our urban streets
The armies of the unemployed
the disabled and the weak
they that toil all the week
ten cents a bottle ten bucks
a day to get some food to eat
if it’s right or wrong I cannot say
lets forget about it for today
And look the other way
But in the misery of their despair
I see a beauty in their eyes
as they reach for their bottles and cans
the beauty I see is their inner strength
not in the condition there
It’s in their perseverance and their will to live
it’s where the midday sun streams
and bathes the withered skin and faces
in the golden sun
it’s in their cloths of quilted robes
that hide their worn down skin
it’s in the carts of plastic orbs of mystic shapes
it’s in the muscles of their backs
bent summer winter fall and spring
They work the streets juxtaposed
next to gourmet and high end shops
Where I imagine them looking in
do they dream of such fancy things
But it fades away and focuses
out in the night of day
to their thin worn out hands
I think of those that don’t or can not see
them when there walking by
Cause to see them will shake the conditioned reality
which would become undone
to bathe and eat in splender
Next to such plight and hunger
The clown juggled his feelings in front of an incredulous crowd
Life is a circus and even a fool’s manna does not fall from heaven
He had balls to impose his mask and mascara onto instant applause
Was not sure though about who was the jester of standing ovations
His delusion was the illusion of reality in preposterous meaning
An existential artist he seemed to be in retro postmodern nostalgia
Intermezzo personified with endless beginnings entombed in a grin
Cut with a razor tattooed on his skin facing an ignorant audience
True to his script he stumbled and fell short and flat of intemperate desire
Gobbled up sand mixed with elephant poo and regurgitated misplaced pride
‘I sold my soul to fake laughter but even the kids are stuck on their phones’
Past his best like a relic he assembled dust of anger and fear for the future
He had turned into a proverbial slurve a slipped metaphor of fading delight
An imposter of joyful exuberance in a tedious world that could not care less
A projection of resentment a nuisance and overdue reminder of innocence lost
He was real to himself though like a hole in a bucket draining trickles of faith
As he gathered oblivious agony and immeasurable shame and contempt
He whipped one last sphere of hope high into the canopy of sad gloom
Hoped that the contorted trapeze artist might catch his final effort to escape
She twisted dangled reached out then crushed into a net suspended in yearning
With the show over ungrateful spectators left the miserable dishonest display
The tent was locked up and the onlookers retreated into self-righteous boredom
As lions horses fleas impalement and con artists took to their cages’ containment
The clown and the acrobat slipped off the road and eloped into a promising night
17th June 2019
Lord Krishna came
Much later than Rama,
According to the Puranas.
But in my life it is the other way round:
Krishna, my Guru, came into this world
Much before I did.
He is my friend, philosopher, and guide—
Not a cliché.
He spotted me at the Mecca
Of English Studies in India,
And taught me;
Saved me once
From a dangerous Kali Yuga Vamana,
Who nearly killed me.
Krishna has helped me in more than one way.
One great example:
He made me realize my own strength,
As did Jambavan to Hanuman.
He sent me to a Land of Kings in the North,
To teach the followers of a Saint;
Then, to a holy town in the South
To teach a bunch of learners—easy to teach,
And I was eager to teach.
Chose to write books with me
On Philosophy and Rhetoric
For posterity to benefit.
Nominated me Yuvacaharya,
That is, his heir apparent.
Then, went a step further
And nicknamed me Brahma Rishi,
A title, as you may remember,
Awarded by Sage Vasishta to Viswamitra.
That amounts to equating me
With himself—a great honour!
Thus, his love for me is
Something like Marjara Nyaya,
Like, that is, that of the cat taking
Exemplary care of its kitten.
All this he did to me
With no strings attached.
No expectations.
No barter.
And this I consider
An excellent example of detachment
Or Nishkamya karma,
As preached by Lord Krishna, in His Gita.
And, now, as practiced
By Krishna, my Guru,
In this Kaliyuga or Postmodern times.
He has been betrayed, alas,
As was Jesus by Judas.
But Jesus had only one betrayer,
But Krishna has had more.
That did not, however,
Turn him away from virtue;
Did not turn him sour.
He remains positive, energetic—as ever.
Age cannot wither him,
Nor custom stale his infinite variety.
God bless him!
***
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.
("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)