Modern Shakespeare: a birthday poem 20161026

Shakespeare would have no place in the modern world.  Will would be consider a creeper.  Expressing love, professing adoration is icky stalker go away.  I don’t know you that well, maybe after sex, emptied lattes, and months of ritualized desensitization then maybe a molecule of emotion might surface, until then I don’t have time for your drama Bob.  Poet’s hearts are heavy, weighted with witnessing the insides of everyone encountered.  The modern severed the necessity of intimacy for connection.  We can text, email, or post on a website.  Even the secondary sensorial paradigm of talking on the telephone is considered too much of an intrusion or investment to respond. 

To speak in person or dare convey inspiration of a muse in the loftiness of art or love is to be called a fool by a sea of digital cynics and cast as obsessive or fixated when one is engaged in a moment not beholden to the mythology of love as control or shackle, but as wing and liberation from the gravity of judgment piloting the ethereal unknown of possibility.  We become open like darkness inspired in the fragrance of romance to pen wafting ambrosia.  Though we do not smell, we feel and be in thy luscious curl making words that quench the soul and damn the tide to rise and state I hath lived.  I hath sensed beauty and grace and this day thy tiny hamlet quaked, a flower bloomed so that one cannot help imbibe, to witness a painted sky and cracking youth’s wonder with a savored tongue, this sight, this taste, thy lovely wing hath lifted me.

We are our universal ecstatic ebullition exploding into the infinite. We become detailed in the tongue of poets riding mathematics beyond normal language.  To do so is to stare into stars fissuring the commotion of the herd into one and another fused in presence.  To attempt to describe peering into such a vision requires a Shakespearean tongue, to be willing to be misunderstood and dare labeled fool.  For what is love if not foolish?  For what is love if not madness?  To make sense of these gallops of time I dare say laugh, laugh into that sun intrepid.  For we are all but rays of varied vibration connecting in a gallery of light.  Thy most gorgeous wave’s fruition is love.

Shakespeare’s sonnets extend salvos of romantic letters that reek of desperation if that is how one perceives the stanzas in iPhone light.  A human says what he feels in his being and does not apologize for coming from a place of awe and hunger for the force above all in this universe: love.  What a sin it has become to be a romantic or to be enraptured in the fancy of coquettish poetry, to fly sonnets with reckless hope as if love is an affliction of the mad, drunk in lust or illusion of who a person is.  The sterile doctrine of text messages and digital representation of humans clogging libidinous excitation and romance into microchips and source code!  

Dare worse the trumpery of Trumps, patriarchal grab hands salting the garden with rapacious spades.  Thy flower wilted bludgeoned in wrath of Rohypnol, tic-tacs, and thieving palms.  Years of learning how to take back taken space and a poet speaks and stem cowers for fear of a honeyed tongue so that romance sounds like piracy.  To stand this commemoration of my exit from mother's womb shared thirty years from our soon to be woman president's day of birth.  Let thy gardens castigate these wolves of men which hath made poetry a dead thing.  Let love in sweetness be not the troll's tooth behind mine nectar.  For be pure seed for pure fire.  

Enflame dear poetry and light this world in conflagration for love’s majesty!  Be in a moment and bear a breast wide to the needle of thy judgment.  Spear the ignominy of adoration for pastoral beauty.  Tis a goddess about spinning life in mortal coil.  To be but witness to such grace one must speak, one must act and be made alive to dance in poetry.  One will not shutter into the conformity of metallic tow.  One will burn!  Burn a lover’s gravity hurling one’s self into the atmosphere of beauty, but to bear witness in thy lovely fire.  Tis this and nothing else; the remainder laid cinders.  Fire hath devoured in such luscious heat.  Thy love in enflamed bloom!