First found this poem on WritersCafe.com and it would just be an absolute shame if I didn’t share it with my followers. If anyone was wondering what kind of modern poetry I truly enjoy… it’s this kind of poetry. Not so abstract that you think the poet must be playing some kind of game with your head, but enough that you are allowed some place to play with your own imagination. I like this.
He also seems to understand the importance of titling. Very few people do, these days.
to watch the fire I make my way to a hay bale.
a certain misshapen bale I first called
this is the kind of time I have.
my sister believes her left eye doesn’t exist.
that it is the shadow of her right.
because of her many beliefs,
my father has placed himself
where he curses like a censored linguist
made to collect
in my dreams I am charged with a notch of black tape
and the sloth
of a woman’s
I pass a finished tree with some color left in its leaves
and recall my uncle swallowing his ribbons
from the heyday of flame
at the height of what mother called