Poetical Vibe

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I have little to say of poetry, save this:

The poet is bound by his verse, with only the divine reigning supreme above him!

The Pulse and the Foam

✒️ The Pulse and the Foam

In poetry today, something vital is at stake. Too often we see verses polished until they shine but robbed of the flame that gives them life. My six-poem cycle, born from The Bloodless Craft, is both critique and demonstration—a mirror held to contemporary verse.

Each poem embodies the very tension it condemns. They burn against artifice while being shaped by artifice. This contradiction is not weakness—it is revelation.

1.

The Coffin of Rhyme

A sonnet that rages against rhyme, even as rhyme holds it together. The coffin is also heartbeat. The paradox lives in every line.

2.

Ash-Marks on Eternity

A mystical hymn, invoking Hafez, moth, and nightingale. It praises abandon but delivers mastery. Madness yearned for, yet beauty forged by skill.

3.

The Safe Ballet

The villanelle condemns “dancing in circles,” yet circles are all the villanelle allows. Condemnation becomes performance.

4.

Dissection on Tuesday Afternoons

The pantoum rearranges lines like scalpels cutting flesh. It critiques dissection while dissecting itself. Form becomes the proof of its own irony.

5.

Authenticity Performed

The haibun pretends to be spontaneous truth, but even its sugar packets are weighed. Authenticity itself is revealed as artifice.

6.

Letter to a Former Workshop Leader

A student rebels against the bloodless muse, yet every line is workshop-perfect, every rhyme deliberate. Even rebellion is caught in craft’s net.


These poems are not simply attacks on contemporary habits—they are manifestations of the very contradictions they expose. By allowing the forms themselves to betray their own emptiness, the cycle makes its case more powerfully than argument ever could.

Either a poem burns, or it does not. Either it pulses with necessity, or it lies. There is no middle ground.

And yet—even within these contradictions—the pulse can be heard. Poetry still has the power to move, to wound, to save. But only if we demand fire, not foam.

— ✒️ Al Konda, The Mythical Poet


The six poems can be found on my X profile, posted today 09.09.2025.

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