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Somewhere around 1960 or thereabouts, (these dates are never precise, much like an old lover loved lost seeking to regain the sphere) the poem changed, lost meaning, Eliot, Yeats, Stevens, out of fashion, not to mention Tennyson, the metaphysicals, or Shakespeare, jolly giants, deemed too tough. A dreary half century muddling along without a voice: merely doomsday imagery, the mushroom of Bikini island, a strand of concrete splintering Berlin, horrific mummified Stalin still seeking to be buried, laid to rest beyond an air conditioned coffin where peasants stroll by eating only the nothingness of Lenin, Marx now long rotted by syphilis, Mao Se Tung a dreaded Chinese negro nightmare brought into full light by Tienamen Square. Only the blanks remain to be filled in. Children taught by CNN, MTV, the latest nihilo news on the brightest Turned channel. There is no substance here, no essence beyond the milky shadowy photosultry images haunting the mind, the spirit, like the just turned local news. Where have all the poets gone? What heroes remain? How can enticement beyond the mundane reach the dead brain zombies that don't even eat cornflakes anymore? What Vegas dancing girls can bring back the Haunted hush of centuries, beplumed, sequined, a pyramidal sequence beyond the painted flesh? Can it be in something as simple as Chevrolet, baseball, apple pie? These are twisted images for the hungry to hunt, the bold to embrace, the fortunate few dancing Circuitous in lightning that seeks the splintered sphere: only to be reminded where you are=where you will be. Those are serpentine terms to be regarded in the day or night--both embracing--till the soil no longer speaks, loam silenced while waiting for another whispering voice that has nothing to do with an abstract millenium. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact RALPH MONDAY) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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