It is the world of Shiva and Shaitan
It is the world of Krishna and Kant
Devi on Nandi holding Demon and Son
Devotees, Deities, Ash, Claps and Fun
Fragile girl carrying child in her arm's
Not mother but a sister’s virgin palms
To Die for him but not a bruise to touch
Just Bottom pinching nothing too much
Anguish in her arms to shut the door
Hammer or Paedo, they break the core
Unreal city under brown fog of cold dawn
Slogans, Sighs where savage zombie born
Cow with a nose grip lost her way
Is she mute or has nothing to say?
Another one eating her own skin
Is there Anyone left? kith or a kin
Her body is torn open with the blood
No milk, No Calf. Here screams flood.
Categories:
postmodernism, absence, anxiety, black love,
Form: Sonnet
Mid Autumn, Saturday 6.30am
and daybreak is slowly climbing
over the back fence.
Frank O'Hara's poetry is still
echoing in my head from reading
it last night as I cook breakfast
of bacon and eggs.
Later I walk up the street
to the chemist to get
my blood pressure pills
and as I walk, compile arguments
against Postmodernism
and recognise that the notion of
the transcendental
sits at the centre of my beliefs.
I cannot abandon meaning.
Later, I prepare a leg of lamb
for baking along with potatoes,
pumpkin and carrots. Childhood
breaks through as I open
the oven door and a blast
of heat hits my face.
I am persuaded now
by the arguments
of the Universalist or else
there is nothing at all.
After dinner I sit quietly
with my wife. The evening
is coming on and the sound
of crickets filter in through
the front screen door.
I have much to be thankful for
but I feel sad. I am not sure
if it's just the early dark or having
to let go of the last line
of this poem and slip back
into the heavy silence
of myself.
Categories:
postmodernism, autumn, poetry, tribute,
Form: Free verse
I went to school to try and find
new ways to write creatively.
Professors challenged my young mind
with homework drills approved by the
Academy.
Postmodernism ruled the day.
No metered rhymes were ever heard-
such verse considered "too passé".
Creative Writing profs preferred
some obscure word.
The free verse that I wrote while there
was abstract, cynical, rhyme-free,
sophisticated, debonair.
The one flaw in such poetry -
it wasn't me.
With time, I learned to find my voice -
words forming my biography.
I write in styles that suit my choice,
not those of some Academy
of poetry.
written 22 July 2023
Categories:
postmodernism, poetry, school,
Form: Rhyme
Signs and symbols as idols for truth’s god as meant
Introspection of man’s society by society
Mirror of conceit and the non-existent
Universal veiling of this reality
Long gone days are dreamed of, symbolised, and spurred
A painting of a world that no longer exists
Creation of Man and of Saklas are blurred
Reigning supreme is hyperreality that persists
And our only salvation is Christ, the logos and the truth
Categories:
postmodernism, deep, philosophy, religious, society,
Form: Acrostic
Join me, in my hand, ??
Join me in the Institute for a Common Humanity.
Here I perch, naked and beaten, on a tiny glass slide within a microscope.
It is wondrous to find that this skin is formed of a million shattered triangles,
our brains fractal-ised caverns of tentative foliage.
Join me, in my hands, ?? ????!
Join me in the Institute for a Common Humanity.
Where, and too far away!
Our hearts sink in sealed jars of Dread;
an unwilling relief is sent of the wind.
In time, an ultradian contortion;
we'll peer into the minds of a derelict people, and clear as ever day
shall arrive the curious light.
????? ?? ???? ?? ??? ?????.
?? ??? ???? ?? ??? ????? ??????,
?? ????? ???? ?????.
Categories:
postmodernism, allusion, beauty, humanity, philosophy,
Form: Free verse
Postmodernism’s the fashion ne’er manque.
We must study Foucault and his scribes.
Get reason trapped and do not court delay.
You need to find your intellectual tribe.
Where is the goose which laid the golden egg..
Invented meta-talk and fairy tales?
Which narrative is balanced on a peg?
Which philosopher gets re-homed by a whale?
Where is the whole truth and the nothing but?
Whose ‘ the eye which sees reality?
Who ‘s the judge who makes the final cut?
Where is the God to whom we owed fealty?
Now nothing is what anyone can say.
I understand it’s meaningless to pray
Categories:
postmodernism, philosophy, satire,
Form: Sonnet