…and the word was Clint

Poem By Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl

Much to everyone's surprise
the haiku stormed the fields
as mad as a hatter,
wielding a sharp blade
and started slashing metre
left and right.

A myriad of free-verse poetry
suffered defeat
epistles slain against the walls
bled caesurae out of their gullets.

A couplet for love
sopped its cheeks with tears
lonesome on a dirty cot,
soiled with last nights stint,
it reeked of lies and
yet it died with ease.

The most potent of lyrical epics
- even fads of unnerving muscle -
lay supine with their guts seeping out,
redundant, slain again and ever again,
even they were not granted life.

Parallels, opposites,
recurrences,
palaver and foot,
overstatements
and understatements
groaned in beat
to the roar of demise
when a maddening
japanese metre
rode through the fields
cross-legged
with one word over the other
in a mood of nearly insolent
Calm.

Finally, the haiku itself dropped to its knees
roared out a cry of war,
raised the sword high above it's head
and drove the blade through it's own abdomen.

Translation: Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl

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