i saw a film done
by one
Jean Cocteau,
called
'Blood of a Poet';
a surreal riseau
into which were woven
the phrases of pain
and woe
artists all know
who can't go
insane.
montage of a
journey
within, to the
core
of the soul; - all
the chambers and scenes
to explore.
each camera angle
a metaphor,
framed;
each image - absurd,
with few words
to explain.
and in the end
after
poet had
bled
alone on the stage,
with his verses
all read,
the suicide could've been
mine!
as it was,
undaunted,
the audience
offered applause.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem