I love modernist poetry. It messes with your head! By that I mean, it's like a puzzle at first read, but then when the pieces of the puzzle start to come together, you can't help but be wowed by its nifty cleverness. Like this poem - who would have thought you'd see geometry in a rose?
Rose - William Carlos Williams
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air - The edge cuts without cutting meets - nothing - renews itself in metal or porcelain - whither? It ends - But if it ends the start is begun so that to engage roses becomes a geometry - Sharper, neater, more cutting figured in majolica - the broken plate glazed with a rose Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses - The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end - of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits Crisp, worked to defeat laboredness - fragile plucked, moist, half-raised cold, precise, touching What The place between the petal's edge and the From the petal's edge a line starts that being of steel infinitely fine, infinitely rigid penetrates the Milky Way without contact - lifting from it - neither hanging nor pushing - The fragility of the flower unbruised penetrates space