Dead Poets are liked pursed clams camped in hallow graves
Glassed, cold, mute but wiggling.
Clicking their deep hand prints in secret places
It seems strange to go seeking illumination from such sad & blighted ghosts
Never again to know their perceptional genius
Their marred hope
Their savage intimacy
Their staunch resolve
Their breached grace
Their caustic tragedies
To be so incapable to draw on the beauty of their art to anchor them to life
when they rain thier words..are a bit.. still sweet...if not a little.. sour and tart...iip
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Interestingly enough... Sylvia Plath's name has come up many times for me this weekend. I too am a fan of Her writing! On another note... Your poem is great, and filled with powerful emotion, very good work