Modern Poetry

The ungainly takeoff,
and the tortured flight
is as smooth as a nib
hacked to splinters out of spite,
the ink blotching the page
much like the poems blotch meaning
into a sprawling mess.
It is superficial
like the narcissists penning it,
taking selfies in
free-fall, clutching at whatever
thesauruses they find on the way down,
hoping to fashion wings out of jumbled
polysyllabic diction,
their word choice unwieldy and
sought for its indulgent plumage
which only encumbers them more
until they plummet like a fat dodo
parading in taped-on peacock feathers.
Each one thinks himself Garuda,
king of the birds,
but they are itty-bitty bantams
crowing loudly, and crudely,
deaf to their hoarse discord
and their own fumbling lyricism.
They attempt to boom with emotion,
like Thunderbirds shaking heaven and earth
with their fulgurous flapping, abreast of the sky,
but they mistake down for up,
thinking the spin a symptom of
euphoric vertigo.
Look here:
poetry is word, image, and meaning all unified
in delicate harmony, like a trinity of vision,
like the three dimensions necessary for
a bird’s flight.
Yet,
there is no more life in their poetry
than in a stuffed bird.
There is no more emotion in their poetry
than in a shrill bird whistle.
Perhaps they believe
that plunging headlong into
jargon poetry
will be to rebirth themselves, like a
phoenix
reclaiming beauty and life from the ashes
of syntax and diction and image
which they have so willfully burnt,
but really their poetry is nothing more
than an undeveloped chick
pushed prematurely out of the nest
to splatter and decay
into meaninglessness on the sidewalk.
Such poets think they are seeking to beautify
with their free-fall,
but reality always reasserts itself—
as broad and uncompromising
as the rising horizon.
Perhaps, then,
it would be better
if the chick was never hatched;
better if it was swallowed
by the serpent of doubt,
the egg shell opening
(if at all)
unto the acidic stomach of
my own self-confessed
resentment.

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