Is poetry dead?  Look a bit  further, with different eyes. Poetry likes to fight back.

written by EMILY MARUCCI

Remember that only on paper has humanity yet achieved glory, beauty, truth, knowledge, virtue and abiding love… — George Bernard Shaw

I am not dead though, if anything I am half alive. I am writing hopelessly — but still I am writing. I can’t express how I feel. Pages accumulate. The story stands still and it used to be okay. I’m afraid there is something wrong with my thinking apparatus or maybe others? I write these things because I have to reason with you. I may not be the bravest but you are either too young to understand these things, your mind is closed, you just don’t give a shit to look around. Or you haven’t heard of Bukowski. Who screamed out “one more beer, and I can take you all!” ­­— and just that made you feel something. Or Beau Sia. Who spews out words about the candle store on Mott, and how he wishes he could relive the past with Random. Selfish. Fucking.” Billy Collins says, “Yes, there is all this foolish beauty, borne beyond midnight, that has no desire to go home.” And you are sitting at the bar giving flirty eyes to the guy across the room, sipping slowly on your cranberry vodka, and you are going to tell me that doesn’t mean something to you? Or you havent heard of the others names that don’t start with B. There are many.

“I’ve been told

that people in the army

do more by 7:00 am

than I do 
in an entire day

But if I wake 
at 6:59 am

and turn to you 
to trace the outline of your lips

with mine

I will have done enough

and killed no one 
in the process.”

That’s Shane Koyczan. One sentence.

“Memory Sucks”

Put things on paper, read things of past and present. Rap music. Spoken word. Look at things differently. The girl on the street with the headphones. The drink you are sipping widly. The homeless man screaming madness. The subway drummers. Put it on paper into stumbling and beautiful sentences. Think of it like letters, crafty, honey-eyed, taunting, impulsive, fury, burned letters, spelling disaster… Whatever it takes to make you realize. Literature, song lyrics, the stage, You’ll realize all is not dark.

Charles Bukowski “Bluebird”

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