Dreaming Of The Dead Poem by Martin TURNER
Dreaming Of The Dead
From time to time the dead come
for their allotted meeting like prisoners,
jostling, and sit on the bench to wait.
The hands of the carver
recognise each face.
My father is among them.
To him I go first, assuring him
that he is always first for me,
as if he needed
this reassurance.
This is one of those poems that you feel the sensation of more than the meaning. It's so elemental it takes charge of you and it doesn't even matter what it means. It moves along your skin like the dead breathing.
I can so relate to this.. I still dream about my sister. I'm always disapointed when I wake. Joyce
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/12/2024 3:32:58 AM # 1.0.0.1119
your poem was good i wish i can write like that. but you probley been writeing longer then me.