Rookie (February 9th 1948 / London, Westminster SW1)

Dreaming Of The Dead - Poem by Martin TURNER

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.

Comments about Dreaming Of The Dead by Martin TURNER

  • (2/11/2008 1:43:00 PM)

    your poem was good i wish i can write like that. but you probley been writeing longer then me. (Report) Reply

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  • (3/31/2007 3:38:00 PM)

    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. (Report) Reply

  • (4/22/2006 1:10:00 AM)

    I can so relate to this.. I still dream about my sister. I'm always
    disapointed when I wake.

    (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, February 21, 2006

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