Conflated Conception

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

A cicada cries

And cries. It is an orangey

Red paper windmill.

~ Issa [Englished by Phillip Whidden]

The windmill blades in swirl become the swish

Of matter; no, the scarlet blades are sound

Like Homer’s trumpets.  Poets hold their wish

That in the blades the fragrant wind is found

From ancient times.  The singers make sound red,

As red as neon lighting in a club,

As fierce as malest tubing getting head,

As fierce as glans of penis in a pub

Where men find hidden corners for the need

Of flesh to flare out like a flame and send

Thrusts’ scarlet thrill shot through its off-white seed,

The scarlet and vanilla seed men blend.

  Material becomes the spiritual*

    In one near holy bobbing ritual.*

* The poet supposes that many readers will think that the fact that this rhyming pair form a not quite rhyming pair is permitted because of the upsettingly (?) prurient imagery being presented.

©  Phillip Whidden