Friday, 18 March 2011

Experiments in Marginalisation


In other words stands the sonnet and rhythm.
To any distant star money and rhythm go.
In not quite literal sense-poetry
man is not the sequence of the philosophical tradition.
Poetry may remain just sounds
and his contemporaries discover that.
Of currency are old-fashioned notions to offer shelter
to incoherence reflecting the possibility
that so easily outstrips most poems.
Arbitrary lines don't stop now:
chopped into many changes over the rhythm of collage
more communal and before the shackles of paper,
this century poetry has grown heavy metal sounds.
The avant-garde is ancient -
the limerick, doubly marginal.
Beyond transgressions of intellectuality
apparently indistinguishable from its boiling point,
the philosophical tradition, the winnowing tray
of contexts whose members write poetry
but not necessarily a word, professionalised -
the language movement,
but experienced cake walkers are immune to the word,
the short-circuiting rhetoric of experimentation
and indecipherability, the meaning of thought
challenged in all walls of language.
Admittedly they have shares in the shrine.
Poetry may remain just as a few words chopped
into a demonstration of handlettered marginality.
Of course I'm going to mention the hoariest platitudes,
the rhythm of experimentation
where old-fashioned notions be opened,
the forms used here, and refluxed
so it might all have meaning.
Admittedly it was logically expected
that poetry could extrapolate a false picture,
so I'll provide beacons that after 70 margins loom.
Ineradicable prose poems principally exist
from over intellectuality and its purity.
She'd asked me write poetry that did not rhyme,
poetry that gave bloom to wax polemical.
There'd have been a less inhibited style
of tears swelling from the forms used here,
brains and the sonnet, rhyme and foul subject matter
the She could expand to write in a critical decorum.
Berated for her poems, perhaps they identify
themselves, display the twelve-tone music of her
language, quoting or imitating another poet's soul.
Don't smother the limerick, said the voice.
I want to express thoughts in a long noise
so I'll provide the abject object status of folksong,
unlike Pound's free-fall writing of Homeric epics...
always the cat will be drawn!
Might dissolves the patterns of life,
becomes the notebook in a word
no one could expand to change in their midst.
The edge in the scene of rhyme
and its reliance on the rest and tune are different.
There is a play-area,
not all around the regions of genreless writing;
movement avoids standardised typographical grids.

© Gerald England

Composed: Gee Cross, 25th July 1992


1993 TOPS The Toadbird (UK)
1994 International Poetry (USA)

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