Meathooks, notebooks,
the whole city sky palely flaming
& spectral bombs
hitting that patch of river
I see from my eastern window.
The poets are dead, the city dying.
Anne, Sylvia, Keats
with his passionate lungs,
Berryman jumping from the bridge & waving,
all the dreamers dead
of their own dreams.
Why have I stayed on as Horatio?
Anne sends poems from the grave,
Sylvia, letters.
John Keats's ghostly cough
comes through the wall board.
What am I doing here?
Why contend?
I am a corpse who moves a pen that writes.
I am a vessel for a voice that echoes.
I write a novel & annihilate whole forests.
I rearrange the cosmos by an inch.
As spring is all of life, depression at its early chiefly concerns the world with war and peace despite great poets' works falling dead on eyes and ears........outstanding piece...........thanks for sharing
This is wonderful poem reflecting upon deep philosophy of life. 'I am a corpse who moves a pen that writes. I am a vessel for a voice that echoes. I write a novel & annihilate whole forests. I rearrange the cosmos by an inch. '... shows your extraordinary talent as a poet. Thanks for sharing.
Being irritated by something over some issue, one can never know what kinds of feelings one would get. However, that could be te ideal moment to note th feelings down, and the rest of the world will enjoy a poem. Thanks very much for the well written thought provoking poem. x
the whole city sky palely flaming The poets are dead, the city dying. I am a corpse who moves a pen that writes....//.... A very horrible and depressing picture presented.
Real depressive. But more than depressing it echos a sense of rebellion.
I am a corpse who moves a pen that writes. I am a vessel for a voice that echoes. I write a novel & annihilate whole forests. I rearrange the cosmos by an inch. Wow, what a lovely creation. Superb.So great poetic skill. Amazing poem. 10++++
With the muse of a pen that writes! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.