Words that, frozen to the skull,
I try to thaw, and start to mull
before I slide into a slumber,
I find in sleep, a lot less dumber
than I am watchfully awake.
I then forget them, and forsake
the tablets of poetic mem-
ories that I recall in REM,
which is the time when I unfreeze,
recovering, like Philoctetes,
the power of my bow, whose arrows
are words my fertile cortex farrows.
Wordwounds that I suffer, sleeping
heals, unfreezing by mindsweeping.
Inspired by an an expression used byJane Liddle King to Linda in an e-mail:
It took me YEARS to register the key fact that in Cambridge I missed the school friends (all female) with whom I shared poems etc and that the men I met in Cambridge froze the words to my skull...
© 2008 Gershon Hepner 12/31/08
a wonderful poem well-crafted and flowing smooth and rich with apt imagery
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Them days, they are like gold.