THE E.N.C. SYNDROME

It has been interesting and informative to read the comments readers attached to my monthly entries when I wrote for the Auckland Poetry blog several years ago. 
There are people in the big wide world out there who share my views on modern English-language poetry after all. 
I am not alone in my thoughts, but may be a solitary voice, which brings me to the title of this month's offering.

To expand, I call it The Emperor's New Clothes Syndrome. 

Strangely, I was discussing this very topic with a colleague from work a week before one of my commentators also mentioned it. 
The so-called "modern" forms of today's poetry (free, fractured verse with faulty phrasing and flawed language) are being touted throughout the hallowed halls of Acadaemia, the clubs and societies of writers, the Internet, and (Heaven-forbid!) even the offices of certain publishers, to the extent that they have become the "correct" and almost exclusive form of English-language poetry today. 

What if it is all one big glorious confidence trick? 

Perpetrated by a bunch of failed English-language professors, the scheme sees them clutching tightly to each others coat-tails as they experience a meteoric rise to fame (not fortune, as there's no money in poetry today!) and kudos. Their new rules dictate how poetry will now be written and promoted and (Wow!) everyone can be a poet, although you are obliged to belong to a recognised clique for you to be recognised in turn.......

(quote)

So off went the Emperor in procession under his splendid canopy. 
Everyone in the streets and the windows said, "Oh, how fine are the Emperor's new clothes! Don't they fit him to perfection? And see his long train!" 

Nobody would confess that he couldn't see anything, for that would prove him either unfit for his position, or a fool. No costume the Emperor had worn before was ever such a complete success.

"But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.

"Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, "He hasn't anything on. A child says he hasn't anything on."

"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.

The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all. 

(unquote)

I leave you to draw your own conclusions..........

NIGHTFALL 

Grey and white ramparts edged with fire,

Violet mountains in turquoise sea.

Scenes shift and darken as I watch,

Last rays of sunset turn and flee.

Dull red echoes of daylight's demise

Brush the horizon as night begins.

Stars call each other from places far,

Fair maiden moon stirs velvet limbs.

                 © Kim Randell 

AGE OF AQUARIUS

Pathways convoluted, twisting, turning.

Journeys short and long near speed of light.

Flames of information flickering, burning.

Glowing channels pulsing day and night.

Electrons, spheres of power, are the lifeblood,

Clumped in convoys, driving hard and fast.

Ferrying large loads of data drygoods,

Until their keyed address is reached at last.

Giant conduits, glass and copper highways

Clothe our humble planet in a web.

Terminals pour streams on ether highways,

Flowing far on astral spanning legs.

Sounds and flashing colours fill the world now,

Painted, splashed and shouted pole to pole.

Spinning tales and tunes with cunning knowhow,

Psychedelic bonds which wrap us all.

Gone are days of Caesar's humble runners,

Carrying commands on tired legs.

Highways that took two of Man's short summers,

Now long traversed before he's out of bed.

             © Kim Randell 

LOVE AND WAR

Love and War are the two greatest foci in the Human condition. 
Songs and poems aplenty, good and bad, have been written around these, so why would I be different? 

Peace is another focus, but always short-lived. 
I guess that Humanity will always battle within Love as well as without, and that the ultimate peace is only afforded us at life's end. 

We will all, nevertheless, strive for the whole of our lives to attain peace within our own time on this mortal coil. 
This is, after all, what makes our condition so Human!

Below are a few of my poems on both subjects.

On Love

Love. An over-used and almost worn-out word

But one that's said and oh-so-often heard

Throughout our daily lives as we do toil.

Has this poor word still meaning from our tongues,

Or used so much, it's value's quite undone?

Love. A tired word? Yet it still means so much.

A soft caress, a long and lingering light touch.

A warm and tender body near to mine,

Whose fragrance stirs the harp-strings of my soul,

And mending lesions, makes me once more whole.

Love. Sole reason for me to exist, and give

To others so that they also may live

In that embracing warmth that I share now.

God's grace that always there shall be enough

Of old but tireless wonder that is Love.

© Kim Randell 

       Unconditional Love

The many cosmic levels of our world

Reflect the truth of unconditional love.

The petals of a shining Springtime flower,

A feather swimming airstreams far above.

Rough lichen patterns etched across hard rock,

The irridescent colours on a dove.

There's far more order in our universe

Than random acts of chaos can destroy.

Bright logic really has the upper hand,

There is no senseless beauty in the void.

Disorder counts as evil in this world,

Creation's state of structure trumpets joy.

It's only Man who qualifies his love,

And so puts limits on his very life.

At times he sees no further than his nose,

Thus wounding those nearby with spear and knife.

A massive task it is to shed constraint

And grow his soul past all Man's selfish strife.

Our Maker gives His unconditional love

To every part of this vast universe.

His thoughts are spirals of galactic arms,

His songs, the scales upon a tropic fish.

Mankind is a reflection of His soul,

And so should write His poetry verse by verse.

Now to the heavens we all must turn and take

Good notice of God's unconditional love.

Go cast off petty thoughts of narrow self,

And see the whole wide world as He above.

There is no place for hatred, pain or fear,

Whilst beauty's found in feathers on a dove.

 © Kim Randell 

Her Love

Why does she bother? I don't know,

Sunshine in my clouded life.

How have I earned so much love

And acts of grace from my dear wife?

Male indifference costs us much,

Heads so full of other things,

She just wants to feel my touch,

Which means far more than golden rings.

A warm embrace and words of care

Would mend so much in this hard world,

To answer thus to partner's call

Will treat her love as precious pearl.

                                          © Kim Randell 

            And Hearts Will Weep

The wars that Humankind has fought

Are seldom for a noble cause.

Some start upon a leader's lie,

Yet others through some legal clause.

There is no actual victory,

The end is just a hollowness,

And hearts will weep their tears of blood

While soldiers take their final rest.

We need the truth, not twisted tales,

To keep us firm on Life's tight track.

No guns nor knives nor bombs and mines

Can ever bring a true peace back.

Our posturing politicos

Have many sins they should confess,

And hearts will weep their tears of blood

While soldiers take their final rest.

To fight one's brother for some cause

Trumped up by those that we let lead,

Has never saved one mortal soul

From horrid anguish, solved one need.

Pure Truth's the beacon, guiding light,

The only more that stands the test,

So hearts won't weep their tears of blood

When soldiers take their final rest.

  © Kim Randell 

Time Wars

Months are missiles flying,

Swiftly streaking through the air.

Years are sleek destroyers,

So much for Time's tides to bear.

Decades are the battleships

Whose armament shout fear.

Centuries, those citadels, those crumbling rocky citadels,

those lichen crusted citadels

Pound Time in it's dark lair.

Days and weeks are flashes

From the muzzles of the guns,

War on Time is endless,

No man knows when it began.

The chimes of clocks are drumbeats

Marshalling troops upon the run.

Those sparkling flashing warriors, those lean and hungry warriors,

those tired haggard warriors

Who wish home was in the sun.

There is no end to battle 

On this twisting mortal coil.

The Ravages of Time scream

Like an iron wheel without oil.

Ruthless and relentlessly

Gaining more new soil.

Then dawns a new Millenium, a shining bright Millenium,

a fighting fit Millenium,

Time's battle plans to foil.

Oh wake up, crass Humanity

No wars are ever won.

A generation's damage

Passes on to all your sons.

Please realize Time is precious

And can never be undone.

Go search for blessed harmony, a human caring harmony,

       God's loving gift of harmony

To live life in His sun.

© Kim Randell