A voice from the dark is sneering at me.
I am meddling with some of my old poems.
Out in the bluish cyberspace, poetry rushes free,
Mocking at the years I have wasted, learning
The craft, writing and rewriting the endless drafts.
Fragmented aphoristic lines with doodles—
Found in the margins of old school books—
Now scream from every computer screen.
I brood in this room: is it 1984 all over again?
Or is it my psychedelic view of reality?
Watered down metaphors stare at me, goggle-eyed.
A toxic mix of rawness and idiocy sweeps across
The virtual world. I tremble in cold loneliness.
I read the bywords for bad quality, and ask—
Who gave poetry the freedom to be flawed?
Denying the metrical, rhythmic nexus, words swirl
In a vortex of erratic line breaks. Flamingo-tall,
They chatter from their cushioned nests, claiming
To be a part of new Renaissance. Their coral legs
Disturb me, they scratch the heart of a keyboard poet.
Banal melancholic voice reaches a crescendo.
From the wastebasket of cliches, I pick up a line
Of hard-won truth masquerading as slurred advice.
I chisel it and try to give it a shape, still—
It doesn’t give up the job of being an agony aunt.
From the bogland of social media, it hollers and cries
The joy of being alive. Its consumptive fervor whirls
The craft I once learned into a fierce decay. My words melt
Like greasy garbage down the kitchen sink. Time has no pity
For me in this world of insta poets.
Poetry by Bibek
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Written on 2018-02-25 at 13:16
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