Irony Poems

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
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I--The Tragedy

She sits in the tawny vapour
   That the City lanes have uprolled,
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I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
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This institution,
perhaps one should say enterprise
out of respect for which
one says one need not change one's mind
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Intoxicated by the inspiration
Of his trade—
With mental powers at work,
A true poet rarely sleeps.
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I sat against your knees all night.
I watched the sun rise in your coffee cup.
In all that time you never spoke to me.
I think I must have cried a thousand tears.
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I.

MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.
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Introduction: We don't really think deep enough about 'What A Poetry Actually Is', the obvious question which we all know but don't think how to really elaborate on. We mostly see the story, depth and the purpose it delivers. Well, here's one a little bit different this time...
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Something has gone wrong with meaning of words,
'Sun' and 'Son' beautiful creation of lords,
Both represent energy having sharpness of swords,
Both are crucial for survival and existence of world,
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Oftentimes there are things that we want to achieve,
Thinking that our world’s immortal
But through the years that pass by,
Radiant morning rays await us.
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This normative hill
like all others
is transparently accessible,
out there
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At Wendy's Restaurant in San Jose,
California, USA,
a woman 'found' a finger, rather illy
hidden in her bowl of chilli.
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1
Today, recovering from influenza,
I begin, having nothing worse to do,
This autobiography that ends a
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To know the impossible to be impossible
and yet to love the attempt;
to demonstrate that beauty is eternal, yet
seen only in that moment now,
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The twentieth century has often fooled us.
We've been squeezed in by falsehood as by taxes.
The breath of life has denuded our ideas
as quickly as it strips a dandelion.
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It‘s crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more
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I.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
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L'Héautontimorouménos
Je te frapperai sans colère
Et sans haine, comme un boucher,
Comme Moïse le rocher
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Listen, ladies, while I sing
The ballad of John Henry King.

John Henry was a bachelor,
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May the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,
If I can a passage see
In this word-perplexity,
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What An Awful Irony
April 29, 2024

All are saying for Palestine
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A.K.Ramanujan is an expatriate academician dealing with vyangya, vakrokti, hashya, with irony, humour and caricature. Outwardly he seems to be a professor of English, but is in reality one of South Asian, Dravidian languages as because the folks stuffs are strong in him.

To read him is to be reminded of astrologers, horoscope-makers, astronomers, alchemists and fortune-tellers. Generally, family matters and samsakaras engage him. To use irony with undertones, overtones, to joke with his chief property.
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If you are gentle, all the calculations of life can be easily calculated. The poor fool, immersed in mistakes, does not understand the translation of simple numbers, does not understand the irony of the flow.
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In a land where irony reigns supreme,
Where contradictions dance and dreams convene,
I find myself captivated, bewildered, and lost,
In a country, where lines are crossed.
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sublime and subtle life of the 21st century poetry is happening in textual life conditions.
open doors in poetry is meant to be closed doors in life condition by representing in a parody and in an irony.
paradox of human condition is represented in. parody, irony and reverse techniques of makingbpoetry.
it's in an absatirical way.
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X-rayed eye is necessary to see parodial and ironic texts forms.
light in poetic texts is used to reoresent darkness in life in a decontextualized way of poetic technique.open doirs are symbolized to represent closed doors in contemporary -pistcontemporary poetry in a bizzarre way of making poetry. this is parody and irony in paradox of making poetry.it is subtte and sublime technique of making contempoeary -postcontempirary life in human complexities and human uncertainties. a reverse style of reoresenting comolex, illusive, delusive reality of human identity in a fluxus ofbtextual flight.human suffering in paradoxical reality is shocked by trading reality of light anf darkness, laughing and crying, and open and close mode of life.
the technique of poetry is like walking backward. alone in empty street.
it's complex and uncertain.it's psychological-philisophical twists of poetic hands for writing reality.it's mire of techniques of contemporarary and pistcontemporary poetics.be sharp and sensitive to technique of poetic wisdom in complex-uncertain age of absurdities and digitality.
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IRONY
By: Chan Mongol
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New times but old memories disappear in taurusing fashion, never going away, its done and gone, but never saying who is complex, apart of me, her eyes spoke the most beautiful words a wordsmith couldn't say, yet she wasn't here to celebrate, that smile to listen his world gone, as if saying we all die, we all die, the year is no but all the color faded away as the world became black and white, the places left for them to explore vanished as if imagined, his resolution crashed like the years prior, how can life give death he love, was it gods game, they had history as others didn't care, but he did, nothing drives us she matured in spirit and soul, along away she left him crushed as if irony beckoned him so, she left him in the neediest time, is she not coming back, her hair was shiner than gold, smelling like strawberry, why can't I touch her, do anything at all, they always there, where is it now, new years has new memories, but for him new years meant only new death.
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'Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.'
- J.R.R. Tolkien
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Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch

after Percy Bysshe Shelley
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