Postmodern poems by Dr. Jernail S. Anand

THE POET IS DEAD, 

LONG LIVE THE READER 

 

 

We murder to dissect, said Wordsworth.

A poem was a whole 

And trying to understand it

Which he calls dissection, 

We murder it.

Is criticism a postmortem? 

 

It was dissection in the past,

Now the critic performs 

The duty of 

Putting the parts together 

And trying to give a shape 

And a habitation to an airy nothing.

 

Now there is murder already

The Apoet commits it

Dissection is done by the reader 

And postmortem by the critical squad

Who puts it into an organic  shape

And consigns  it to a mortuary (anthology)

 

The age of murder and dissection

Which accused critics is over 

The role has inched towards 

The Poet now.

He does all the rites of slaughter 

And it is then handed over to the Reader.

 

It is the Reader who knows 

(Not the poet)  who has died 

Whether it did any good job of itself 

Or it was a sheer waste of words 

Assisted by the head priest 

Who comes with his critical incantations.

 

The poem is then wheeled

Into the mortuary (Anthology) 

Where it is remembered for some time

Lectures on it delivered  by scholars 

And then  consigned 

To the Swarg Dham (cremation ground) (Library)

 

Where some tantriks come

And take the ashes 

And reconstruct the poem

And the dead poet 

And before they take up a project

For further dissection,

 

They make sure 

The poet is well known and dead now

Lest he should get up in delirium

And say .

No no..

I did not mean it so.

 

 

 

 

 

POST-MODERN 

(Excuse me dear Poem)

 

It was easy now.

The reader was the writer of the text

And each poem had as many texts 

As its readers 

 

How kind of the man 

Was it Ambercrombie?

Who gave a new lease of life 

To the Poem 

 

How obsessed I am  with myself 

My broken self 

My loves and my hatreds

That poor readers had to have a tough time

 

Even now, I am full of my I

See how I write

I feel, I say, I said 

I will never leave me till I am dead

 

My problem when I write a poem is

I don't know what to say 

How to say 

And for whom to say 

 

So, I pick up a stone

And throw it into a lake 

The waves of water which 

Scrample around ..is my poetic take.

 

Scribble a few words 

Which shirk making any sense

Awsome, great poetry,

Great ink is at work 

 

The examiner's craze 

'The poet says'

Has undergone a transformation

And no longer exists as a coveted phrase 

 

Poets used to be prophets 

Now it is a heretical construct 

If the poets says anything

Or tries to instruct.

 

Poetry is an aesthetic experience 

A zig saw puzzle 

You enjoy giving it ears

And providing it a muzzle 

 

The poet only puts forward  

Disjointed images 

And some broken words

Those who die before their deaths are cowards.

 

.

 

Bio 

 

 

 

Dr Jernail Singh Anand is an Indian poet and philosopher  credited with 175 plus books of English literature, philosophy and spirituality. He was recently honoured with  Seneca Award 'Laudis Charta' by Academy of Philosophical Arts and Sciences, Bari, Italy and Giants of Global Culture at Pontifical Univ Rome by Federation Global along with Doctor's Degree Honoris Causa.He won great Serbian Award  Charter of Morava and his name adorns the Poets' Rock in Serbia.  He is Founder President of the International Academy of Ethics and conferred Doctor of Philosophy (Honoris Causa) by Univ of Engg & Mgt, (UEM), Jaipur.  His most phenomenal books are Lustus:The Prince of Darkness (an epic)  and Philosophia de Anand, a work of philosophy comprising ten of his books under one roof.