Mother Foucault

It's National Poetry Day, so here's a poem. If you don't enjoy poetry, please pretend it is a pie or some nice new socks or something. 

Mother Foucault

I’m a poem for you 

and I’m self referential

I’m inclined to a half rhyme 

To avoid the appearance of being

Too reverential

It’s a difficult trick to step out of convention

To express heartfelt interest in 

Your form and your content

Without becoming entranced by the means of production

Without losing myself to

A kind of seduction.

The language of romance

Is the means, not the end

All my rhythms and rhymes are just

Tricks to pretend I have

Said something new, 

Gone beyond semiotics

Found a way to communicate

Feelings and knowledge

Outside of the constraints of regular discourse.

And Foucault would tell us that’s not how it works

He’d laugh at our ideas and he’d tell us we’re jerks

And he’d say, “There’s no finding a path to the end.

 - There’s only the moment of starting again”

And he’s right, that old guy, with his postmodern gaze,

There’s no end to the writing, even though I try hard

To avoid the cliches, we’ll just have to make do

With this constant renewal

And trust that the burning of draft after draft,

Is creating the fuel, and renewing the flame

So it never runs out

And it’s never the same

And we misunderstand

And we stand

By the window frame