Can’t say I am uneasy with it as it stands
but modern verse barely lifts itself from out
the cradle, grandstanding while it vaguely
makes a play of novice virtues, holds the
same ladle, parochially stirs in ancient ways.
Obscured cachets evoke weird imagery in
fractured scenes of randomness, anger or
frustration seethes endlessly within.
Why would I want to read the dark beliefs
of a heavy metal worshipper impeached with
visibly suicidal street credibility? Because I can –
with no desire to see into the mind of a word-
mangling innocent terminally afflicted with non-
contemplative grief or pure redeeming twang.
© 24 December 2007, I. D. Carswell
*
Too rational to not reach a conclusion
but in love with words just enough to
be touched by feeling – that’s the
dilemma. Life’s journey is a sensory
experience – some elements beyond
understanding, some beyond recall.
True physical facts ameliorate all
temporality – connections in time
and space, but words will still stay
absolute. Look, feel their meaning!
This claim may be another evolution
with weightless mass, precedence no-
longer revolutionary. There, atop the
admiration tree, an excuse for what
passes these days as modern poetry
hangs breathing life into naive and
formless words – all lacking guile but
being untouched by its raw emotions
is a sensory death’s doorway, defining
a sordid place challenging rationality.
© 5 November 2007, I. D. Carswell* "Las Modelos"Acrylic on canvas140 x 109 cm, 1987 Angel Gómez
Having cast his pearls into a feeding bowl
the poet falls on torrid times, the whorls of
sonnets twirled in filigrees of fragrant sense
don’t make amends; these swine will eat the
the rotten ends before they know it’s heady
scent he thinks – before they even raise their
rheumy eyes – years for sure beyond a use-by
date essential to define a lack nourishment.
My friends he cries, my loving friends who need
a guide, I cannot succour you. I’ve tried, Lord
knows I tried. Something in you died – or never
grew; the babe in arms eschewed as father of
the man was left alone to wither on the vine –
and soured the wine.
© 2 November 2007, I. D. Carswell
