Monday, January 16, 2017

The Poems After Poems Comments

Rating: 4.8

The poems after poems, they look like poems
and not like poems
there is a smell of threadbare skin from them
of heated metal - well, so what,
...
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Viktor Krivulin
COMMENTS
Susan Williams 03 February 2018

Wow! ! ! Now this is the profundity that Gertrude Stein tried for and seldom delivered. Must read more- thankful that he was translated into English

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Savita Tyagi 03 February 2018

Apes walking through images. Taking me along every step of the way. Thanks for translation.

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Subhas Chandra Chakra 03 February 2018

A beautiful poem with a undeniable resonance. Thanks poet for this insightful poem.

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Haoran T 03 February 2018

across the tiles - but where to? ! It landed on head/in the corner where the glory where the victorious thunder/rattle in verses in season and out of season Such a thought-provoking poem!Thanks for sharing...

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Edward Kofi Louis 03 February 2018

Across the tiles! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

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Bernard F. Asuncion 03 February 2018

Such a good write by Viktor Krivulin👍👍👍

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Chinedu Dike 03 February 2017

An insightful piece of poetry, well articulated and nicely penned.

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Edward Kofi Louis 03 February 2017

White and quiet! Thanks for sharing.

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Lantz Pierre 03 February 2017

What a wonderfully curmudgeonly poem. It's absolutely alive with dismissive disgust. And an old man's resignation that this is just the kind of crap that happens. Inspired by a poem we take up pen and pay homage. The glittering example, whole and transcendent, is reduced to some tacked together monstrosity of scraps and misapplied vitality. The original comes almost god-like from the head of Zeus, ready to do battle, ready to vibrate the sinews into action. While the latter is a substance contained in a test-tube in a sterile lab. And yet what can the poet do? The resonance is undeniable and must be met with some effort, a hint at something that may find some quiet corner where it proclaims its own small value. Read it aloud in a grumpy old man's voice. The voice of a weathered and experienced soul, with grey stubble and uncombed hair, one who accomplished something that he speaks of only with reticence, that lends him wisdom and experience, who knows also the value of trials tried and failed. This poem fairly sings in that old, gruff intonation.

2 1 Reply
Bernard F. Asuncion 03 February 2017

Thanks for sharing................

2 2 Reply
Viktor Krivulin

Viktor Krivulin

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