RIP

Poetry is dead. Long live the poems.
Does the poet still bears the burden of dissent,
of finding new words for a retro revolution,
when there are none left?
Let the seas rise, the cities fall. Let the snow melt.
Let the last of the evil fly one-winged, out of that box.
Let the chasms widen until
there are no more rivers to run through them.
Let people be divided over and over and over again
till they fit in tiny spreadsheet cells.
Let me be gathered as a data point by a factory of
algorithms that build a bubble around me.
Wasn’t it the scriptures that said that the world is just
perception. (And that was before Facebook.)
What do you want to resist most, today?
What outrage fills your coffee cup this morning?
How many odd tweets does it take to draw an even breath.
Because I have no poem for you to declaim.
No verse for you to hang your mask on.
No couplet. (What rhymes with orange or against?)
Go stand upon your upturned crate and say to the
three-and-a-half people around you that
poetry is long dead. Gone.
RIP.
Now kneel for a minute in silence.

6 thoughts on “RIP

  1. Beautiful and powerful, Rajani. A lovely, poetic protest against the insanity of these times… I loved the line about the factory of algorithms building a bubble around us… scary and true… Hope you are well, my friend.

    Peace
    Michael

    Like

  2. yes, there is suffering and darkness and pain in today’s world. There is also the delicate scent of the single budding rose in my garden which called to greet me as I walked past this morning. And all of this is the land of the poet.

    Like

  3. Thankfully, even in the midst of so much darkness, your poem proves that it is, in fact, very much alive. I am grateful for that. At least we still have words, and a voice.

    Like

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