Poetry
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Burned Man by David Huddle
Share When I was twelve, a man was burned not quite to death at my father's
greatpoets: What's Genocide?
their high school principal told me I couldn’t teach poetry with profanity so I asked my students, “Raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Holocaust.” in unison, their arms rose up like poisonous gas then straightened out like an SS infantry “Okay. Please put your hands down. Now raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Rwandan genocide.” blank stares mixed with curious ignorance a quivering hand out of the crowd half-way raised, like a lone survivor struggling to stand up in Kigali “Luz, are you sure about that?”
the illusion is that you are simply reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem. this is a beggar's knife. this is a tulip. this is a soldier marching through Madrid. this is you on your death bed. this is Li Po laughing underground. this is not a god-damned poem. this is a horse asleep. a butterfly in your brain. this is the devil's circus. you are not reading this on a page. the page is reading you. feel it? it's like a cobra. it's a hungry eagle circling the room. this is not a poem. poems are dull, they make you sleep.
splash - Charles Bukowski
