This corner is dedicated to emerging artists and trends that may one day mold American popular culture. The 1960s saw poetry reach pop cult premium status with poets like Allen Ginsberg, Robert Lowell, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath.

Today, we watch def poetry jams on HBO and even watch poets recite in TV commercials and PSAs. What do you think? Can poetry ever be a pop culture art form again? Has it become one already? One poet, Kai Paju, certainly hopes so.

Five of her poems are featured below.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’s Daughter

Let us come together then, my Self as this Other
When the morning rays first break across the sky
Let us come then, you and I
Touring through the avenue of those who went before us
Like a patient, narcoleptic,
I awaken now to cure my Self.
Immersed in sudsy ocean
I rise to face the overwhelming question,
“Why is it?"
Insistent and inquisite.

From birth we teach and tell a tale of Cinderella.

And indeed this is the time to wonder
To wonder if I dare right now to dare.
I spy Kristeva’s footstep as I turn to climb the stair.
Tiny indentation
In which I pour cement to make my cast.
Still I face a hundred indecisions
A hundred visions and revisions of ities and isms.
Oh Gloria! Do I dare
Disturb this universe?

The purple rays taught the Walker to walk.
The purple Beauvoirian rays will teach the walker to run.
Sparking through me.
Shooting through me.
I stagger and fall down.
Will I drown?

From birth we teach and tell a tale of Cinderella.

For I had not known them all.
There were still spoonfuls of evenings, mornings, afternoons waiting
To be poured into the hourglass.
Not cut yet, hair
Still long, shiny, strong.
With a toss, it caught the light.
What do you presume?

He glanced askance to catch the eyes
That sunlight fractured blue.
Lying behind unconsidered
There was the I.
Unandrogynous – misogynist –
Testosterone trapped by Nature’s gifts.
And what do you presume?

Am wearing lace white dress
With lines, full,
Toned arms glowing brown.
Breeze swirls through to lift this skirt.
Legs fall bare
Gaze falls there
And what do you presume?
And how should I begin?

Can I say I have gone through the same narrow streets?
But I hear the scoffs and scorns of disregard
To the rhythm of her broom from a lonelyman leaning from a window.

Would I have been a pair of feathered wings
fluttering above this suffocating ocean.

The possibility of that moment and its crisis
Must it render underness in every way?
Does the space above my thighs mold me only as this Other?
Saved not Saviour
Culture constructs her Self.
So then I ask “to call or not to call"
Passively pursued.

But as I listen to the prophets
I hear that now my greatness flickers like neon waking up.
And I have seen the ghosts of suffrage marchers
Hold out a coat for me and smile.
Many colored, it is warm,
And, in short, it makes me brave.

And would it be worth it after all,
You ask. After all?
After all the time I’ve waited for my Prince
Cultivating lycra, jewelry, thighs.
To cultivate my brain, my heart, my soul.
To know my own ambition and desire.
To ask the overwhelming question, “Why is it?"
To say: “I am Zora, come from the dead."
Awake, to stretch, to stand,
To try my legs, wobbly.

O’Conner, Morrison, Sappho. Inspire by your example.
I must believe I am more than the size of my breasts.

And would it be worth it, after all,
After the chocolate and the roses and the diamond rings,
After the electrolysis and the dye job and the acrylic nails,
After this and so much more?
To break from this stupidity right before he comes.
But who is he? And what is he?
Let me build my own castle
In the air, on a cloud.
And from inside of me
I will pull the foundation to place it on.
And when you hear the cry of the cat (or Woolf)
Notice, the power in my gaze will say:
I believe I am more than the size of my breasts.

No conversion or revision of my decision.
Yes! I am Prince Hamlet, was meant to be.
Am central to the plot, indispensable,
Soliloquize immortal,
Great wisdom and great struggles,
Hope and strength in me.
Too, flawed and fractured,
But deconstructed I am all.
The struggle of my soul is fit for any plot.

I grow cold. I grow cold.
I must act before I’m old.

I will wear my coat of colors, but I will not look like you.
Underneath there is no suit, no tie, but a dress and perfume.
I must celebrate me, the song of my Self.
For I have heard the little mermaid sing this song of self-reliance,
And I know she sings to me.
Listen, and you will understand
Why I left the chore of treading sudsy oceans
To emerge and ride the waves.
Then the wind will blow white hair
And the sun will sparkle through white eyes.
But you remember the I inside and so will I.
Human voices woke us.
We will not drown.

Rosewood

Feral screams from women tearing through streets
A child flattened with a swinging club
Men knocked into graves they dug themselves
As slashing red flames devour houses
I stand and watch at a distance
I cannot move or speak in the land of the free
Torpid, weak, I stand and watch
And King writes of courage
Would I have helped the Jews?
Would I have harbored Christians?
Would Harriet Tubman know my address?
Or moderate and afraid in the home of the brave
Would I stand silent at a distance?
Surrounded by frenetic movement
Blood flowing from every face
Eyes reflecting only terror
A stampede rushes toward me
Fear floods my heart
Still I stand and watch
Then I try to move
But the weight of a hundred years
A hundred years of neglect
A hundred years of polite avoidance
A hundred years of sin
Bind my leg
Atrophied, I cannot move
Trapped by my own torpidity
The crowd closes in
Closer and closer
The shrieks pain my ears
Shuddering I scream
Then wake wet and palpitating
Turning over
I hear a whispered word.
Rosewood.

Twilight

There is a moment just before falling
When the sun hangs
Pendent

Outside
Children stop playing
To watch God open her crayon box
Color the sky
And be gone

Inside
Unaware
We wait for proof that she exists.

Syllogism

White
A daisy grows
Reflecting in the sun
Simplicity

White
Pure and beautiful
I kneel to pick
Your kiss

Dreamer

Purple spots on lemon drops and pink balloons in afternoons
Green brocade in lemonade and red giraffes with glass carafes
Golden cats in silver hats and blue baboons in silk cocoons
Now stop
And say, indignantly, “Why this is absurd."
Now laugh

For lovers’ stares on park bench chairs and wondrous sights on starry nights
For waterfalls in forest halls and dark red wines on cherished vines
For chocolate bars in cookie jars and pink balloons in afternoons

Now smile
And praise the dreamer.

July 2005

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