Thursday, December 22, 2016

Kit Kelen #358 - a poet's fantasy

a poet's fantasy #1

we write for the time when
poetry will be broadcast
24 hours a day
from stations dedicated
by epoch and genre
with the right kind of music accompanying
broadcast by poets all shapes and sizes
in every language too

no advertising
(no forms debased!)

the work will be
occasional and abstract
pastoral historical comical
every syllable

we write for the day
poems will be draped from public buildings
from slam palaces (once casinos, banks)
from the humblest hovel

no one will buy a tent
but shows its poem to the sun and stars

the cardboard street dweller
will be ashamed not to have some verses
penned for fairweather spells
for donations

every event public and private
will be presaged by poetry
introduced with verses of the right kind
of proper weight –
piss taken too in equal parts

seduction is the work of verse
it's how the race goes on
and off the rails as well

everything must be out of control
and in time-honoured measures –
iamb, trochée,
dithyramb best

there's a logical conclusion
we have to get beyond
we shall ambivalate

no longer shall we die for words
we'll make em up instead

we're much past reason
with the heart
and delve down deep
words under words
and over sky
who knows what we'll fish up?

there's a better world a comin'

perhaps no one is listening today
but we have already invented a future where
the legislators will be acknowledged
parliament will be full of them
the people with the broadest minds
will hone the rules down to a few
and this will go on everywhere
around the piano
behind a guitar
wherever rhythm finds the day
words will follow suit

the xenophobes won't even line
history's dustbin
suits will have been picked threadbare
because we'll all be thinking then
I'd rather be making a poem
a song
a painting
a garden
a house
as perfect as a poem

the fools in charge
the generals will have come to their feeble senses
and graduated to the nursery rhyme
apt saws will keep them from doing harm

a stitch in time will save them nine
they'll look before they leap

there won't be weapons any more
or borders, guards
every dog will be beatific

a season of love is coming
it's not a kingdom
it's on Earth

and we won't say republic
the whole of the world will be out of doors
we'll call our polity the picnic
and we'll continue afternoon
as long as suits
and we'll imbibe
freely but wisely

we'll each of us
be muse and mentor
standard bearer, hack
who is there won't anthologize,
while days away in praise of skies?

we'll cut our purse to suit the cloth
once money's from the picture

poems will be the currency!

Ginsberg wants to pay with good looks
but some of us are godawful ugly
still sing like angels
(better, cause we're real)
poetry's the precious thing
not so for rarity
but for abundance

poems in the letterbox
every magazine's for poetry
and every poem's accepted too
not because standards have fallen
far from it
no, because every poem is good
everyone knows how poetry's done
cause poetry's for everyone

and rings in the air when read aloud
and though still chock with mysteries
every poem is understood
because in the time to be
poetry will be the way of things
poetry will rule

ubiquitous poetic spirit
as wise as worldly
philosophers bow
before the fact concise
made popular, particular
made portable
made prompt

but hark I hear a blowfly drone
there is a smell of something rots
was creature once as we

it seems a long way to the light
when you sing from the foot of the well

yes poets, we write from dark times
and darker
this was a year of darkness coming

we may be playing with ourselves now
we have that old defence
we're doing the best we can

we write now for the time when
truth has set all free
for the world come green
we're to observe
make paradise our paean!

we're bringing truth back into the picture,
with justice, with freedom, with right

but we must compose a way there too
a way that can't be known yet
begins with some simple words

they won't swallow manifesto
if you call it that these days

o brave new world that we're beginning
no church could be as broad as this
as ours
the hundred flowers are blooming
the hundred styles and modes contend

here's Cassandra

poets, on our collective tombstone
these LED lights coloured, flashing

fair enough, she has a point

and there's Zarathustra
railing from heights
but let's not let that get fascistic

Blake weighs black with joy

Whitman wags his tail

Dickinson's still working in doors
Sappho's on the way

o poets
we live for such a time

beyond ourselves
we live

                                                                (apotheosis of Homer)


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