In the zodiac of poets with furrowed brows, born from the shadow of the world devouring the moment
In the zodiac of poets with furrowed brows, born from the shadow of the world devouring the moment,
I am tired of narrow verses, of word sculptures without soul and echo.
Poems that whisper, halt - they fear their own sneeze,
Now is the time for Big Poems,
that grow from slime and mud, defiantly snatching themselves from heaps of disdain.
It's the time when the verse rummages through the dark stomach of existence,
To bring forth heavy, bloodstained poems, born of vomit,
Poems that pull out the carving knife, that let their feather fall into nightmare.
It's the time of these titanic works, poems caught in steel chains,
Verses without truth are naught but dead meat on the skeleton of time.
Hungry souls demand big poems, to fill their empty canvases,
That roar, moan, and crackle, not those that quiver under a brittle twig.
It’s the time for poems like raging rivers in the heart of forests, that battle with the rock,
That grapple with conflicts, not those that retreat at the first attempt to fall.
Now is the time for poems with bones, with hearts beating in rhythm with untrodden centuries,
With blood and pitch, with wounds that give no peace, that ask no forgiveness,
That sprout from the cold earth, dismantle templates and birth revolutions.
It's the time, for giant poems, that burst from the cracks of the soul,
Make us hold our breath, to feel as the heart breaks and rises, big and Majestic.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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