May 23, 2008

No Poetry After Internet

The book is an artifact, its dusty
leaves like layers of desert sand.

Bindings cannot stand the competition,
the glittering lights, graphic

flashiness of electric communication.
Take this ache and make it a web-page

this joy and make it an emoticon. Upon
the screen masses edit elaborate memorials.

Metaphor is dead. The poet a recycled
identity. Hold the Enter key to your lips

and press. Page Up, Page Down, Insert
Symbol. Control. Alt. Delete. Privately

a new generation of readers is busy
restructuring old verse, cutting out tongues.

The ultimate translation project:
The Word is already obsolete.

—Priscila Uppal
from Live Coverage (Exile Editions, 2003)

Posted by dwaber at May 23, 2008 01:15 PM