life

 

 

 

They found Plath with her head in the oven, defeated

by effort and energy.

Sexton they found in the garage

with the engine running on a lovely day.

Liam Rector made a hissing sound

before he left,

hapax legomena, in

Greenwich Village

suggesting a garden space.

Hart Crane, searching for love,

threw himself overboard, alone

to the waves, eaten by sea

monsters.

I know this slippery ground

as tapestry; where to find, free,

of weakness or defect.

 

 

What is this thing about poets

wanting to die? Will they

ever come back telling us of

the brightest light like that

short man in Wisconsin, or that

they found something harnessed

at the base of the wind? A stallion

whose  whoosh and main

stands holohedral, having

all the faces required by

complete symmetry?

 

 

This morning the sun shines so bright,

as seraphim, my favorite,

of six winged redwoods

 

and the sublime.

Reviews

[writing mojo]

So much to tell in the tales of poetic misfortunes, the demise a life time ago, and I wonder when did the poets begin offing themselves, think of hieroglyphics at rest..below ruins and that's the closet answer...pressure....love this one your a spirit among the best...

[Circe]

just wow... you capture the soul of the poet in suffering and also of the poet who celebrates life... reading the suicidal poets like getting a glimpse into their struggles... I think all would have found themselves in love with life at one point.. and yet some emotions and psychological distresses are too complex to measure in terms of life and death... we are shifting along the spectrum all the time.. you write such eloquent painstaking liquid words... and on material that is so close to our hearts.. this line was so surprising "will they ever come back telling us of the brightest light like that short man in Wisconsin".. superb.

[Corset]

A poet will bleed out his own mother for the perfect line.

[Tree]

I had to smile, when I read this.

Diego

[Emily B]

do you know the edna st. vincent millay poem?

i know a hundred ways to die
i've often thought i'd try one
lay down beneath a motor car
one day when walking by one

i know some poison i could drink
but mother bought it for the sink
and drinking it would waste it

. . . can't remember the rest right off

[Emily B]

i thought i would take some pills, had it all planned out and then it occurred to me that maybe my life insurance wouldn't pay off, so i made a doctor's appt instead

So much details in your write dana, I want to absorb, learn more about, and feel, the way you felt them by writing this brilliant piece.

I hear and feel your powerful true self in this, as you give me so many thoughts to think about. Thank you very much.

A poet is just a poet, you know, and poets, as poets, are living a great imagery, and that is cause of the fact, they are poets. :)
E.L.

[Tree]

Ethereal, and thought provoking. There is a hole in the poet that can't be patched up, and when the poems the moons and the love all escape, sometimes there is nothing left to hold onto