Modernism is no longer modern --
beat poets and abstract expressionists
seem quaint now, old fashioned, and existential
angst has learned to poke fun at itself.
We were an earnest bunch, back then; I mean,
we poets and artists, not that I
was one of them. Far too young; of a birth
with this Post Modern they all talk of now.
Post-this, Post-that; do we wane
toward the rise of our new moon, abiding,
filling the emptiness with empty art?
Yesterday's shadows are still too long.
Stephen Brooke ©2007
pretty rough and little more than a thought, really -- this was supposed to be a bit of an essay or comment but it morphed into a poem of sorts...