Dead Poet Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Dead Poet

Here I,
-feel as if
-am second Dead Poet
-by Layton
-standing at the shore
-facing East
-right hand raised
-say good bye to the waves
-Atlantic`s and beyond
-all the way to Iran.

See people come and go,
-sit to rest, munch and eat.

Trash cans by benches
-where they sit, become filled
-with paper, plastic, and the peels.

Kids play hide and seek around me
-use my legs for hiding
-ask questions, look at me
-parents hold their hands and
-read to them the plaques.

The truth, history
-is buried in brain
-and absent.

Real me is not there
-no one can explain
-the ailments
-the exile, refuge, migration
-which is like Irving of Romania
-and others
-and others
-and others
-living in the huge prisons!

Everyone sees a part
-depth of me is gone, lost
-they feel me as they get
-according to their ways...
-interpert
-compare with their own lives,
-translate the grapes...

On and off
-people pose for photos
-in frames I see me...
-or plaques about me:
- Poet of Canada
-was born, raised in Iran.

No use of medicine, oinments
-even if one may have
-I am a figure made of stone
-with cement and copper
-am long dead.