Contemporary poetry demands
too clever words, too misty subtle meanings,
that no-one such poems understands,
as if created by self-centred nerds
or written in some psychiatric clinics.
Entangled, packed with vagueness, compressed,
approaching pure nonsense, those words
envisage readers’ intellects impressed
but fail harmony within a human soul:
instead of building, they scratch and tear it.
This makes me think about the poet’s goal
of self-expression, which is far detached
from purposes of heaven, from the spirit
that seeks in people to unlock the latch
and pour in them a flavour of its realm.
Why twisting self in order to be queer
aspiring to tick the box, to match
imposed standards of a lost peer?
When words, engulfing you, overwhelm
with unpolluted poetry and simple
course of the words so true and so nimble,
why drag yourself into a mental hell
by straining in unnatural gymnastics
thoughts, so in the end they don’t even tell
what they meant in their convulsion spastic?
Why seek beyond the guiding light of rhyme
and rhythm, which so naturally flows
that makes your tired thirsty heart to chime
and feel victorious against all earthly foes?
And why ignore the lights of airstrips,
which bring to other hearts an understanding
of breath that comes from wounded poet’s lips,
assuring safe and gentle poems’ landing?
8 .01.2012