or as I like to call it
Devastation on Stage
Is it the art of the poet to invoke the sensation of having your heart torn out?
Poetry is a performance art. It goes beyond mere words on a page to be read by scholars and elitists posers looking for attention. Poetry is shouted in the back of the bus, sprayed on Day-Glo under bridges and screamed out…
I am never quite certain where the notion that poetry was a confined language slave to meter and verse, or a refined art of stoic and static principles long carved into marble artifacts… unchanging and long since dead.
We may pay homage to the past, relish and marvel at the great works that have come before, but it is cultural suicide to deny the art room to breathe, to grunt and swear, to procreate in a climax of exultation and infatuation. Poetry moans like a whore and takes it like a lady. Poetry hunts like a rogue and fakes like a gentleman. Poetry knows no taboo, recognizes no church, and belongs to no state.
A harsh word of condemnation or the soft caress of a lover, poetry collides head-on without breaks and airbags… and when it is gone, behind the trail of the emotions struggling up from their knees to the bar… holding an ice cube to the temple with eyes closed… remembering what has never been.
Two years on...greetings from B.C. - I am slow. Very, very slow. It can take me a long time to start to feel settled in a place, so it should be no surprise that two years after moving back to...
3 years ago