Where Do Poets Go

~For all the tortured poets on the WC and beyond...

“Heaven deliver us, what's a poet? Something that can't go to bed without making a song about it.” 
― Dorothy L. Sayers

Where do old poets go to die

are we ever laid to rest

could our words live on

into the cosmos for posterity

Old dusty book shelves our castles,

our pen the sword that exults us

Prose and rhyme that differentiate us from the masses

we the thousands that have won no accolades

only our peers to love our treasured words,

have signed no contract other than

the blood we've shed through our written word

will each tear, joy, delirium, every ounce of sweat

that has stained our poetry

metaphorically be our fortress in the sky

will we live on in the eyes of  those who dare to follow

to tread in our pages as we have those who came before us

“I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled [poets] to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean.” 
― Socrates

Author's Note

captcha~aimless

Reviews

[TL Boehm]

I think the saddest thing I feel at times are my unread words. Especially here amongst my peers. I just sent an RR out on a poem that has been here since May. Its not a great thing but it has a place in my heart. And its never been reviewed.
Its part of the reason I review as much as I do. Because we poets - we are our words.

[Frieda P]

Tammy you break my heart, I don't think I have that in my RR's, of course they've run amuck...you're brilliant, so sorry you feel that way!

[TL Boehm]

RRs multiply when you aren't looking. Like watered mogwai.

[Frieda P]

Oh I know, I can't keep up....send it to me in a PM, I looked and couldn't find it on your page.

[Leigh]

Poetry quite rightly described as a true art form, there is a down side to expression, within it we seek perfection in our attempt to hone our creations. I like this one very much thanks

[Astro]

That sort of contemplation will rob you of any sleep at all. The weighing bags piling up below our puffy red eyes, simply become more work rather than symbols of adventure lying beyond the veil of consciousness. If our words are but encoded 1's and 0's and never truly inked upon the pages of a sturdy spined book what happens when the lights go out? Will the emblazoned romanticism of our kin go the way of the dinosaur, or worse just disappear like a shooting star. Simply a beautiful memory. You make me dream awake with this one Frieda. Well done.

[KAOlmsted]

This is the way it is going to be, especially in our age of anyone can publish...and it's actually quite a wonderful thing. Imagine those of us before computers sitting in our bedrooms, pouring our hearts out onto lined notebook paper with a Bic pen...wondering, if anyone ever WAS to find these scratchings, would they be able to read our writing? This is lovely. I enjoyed it a lot. xoxo

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i loved reading this again, Frieda..one of the best poems i have read about poets.

we sign no contracts that is true...but our words are enough...that is our contract..whether we are remembered or not...what we do has some importance...at least to some.

[Frieda P]

Wow jacob, I can't begin to tell you how much that means coming from you, I'm humbled my friend.

[Tai Ryens]

This brought forth a memory of forgotten books, the one found in the novels of Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Imagine a library fueled by the drive of reading to find more books for the collection, our names forever preserved among the names of many others; and most touchingly, a person would eventually fall in love with our novels for life. The thought of what happens to our works after our deaths is both terrifying and intriguing, and theorizing what would happen is quite frightening.

[Frieda P]

I know I will never the words of some poets here, thanks Tai.

[ANTO]

The captcha does it again !
Poets don't die they just get their verses delivered in hearses...

I loved the reflection and the connection through the ages with this one Frieda, well done. Makes me feel kinda special. thank you
X

[Frieda P]

You are special my sweet friend, thanks muchly! xo

[Rosaria_V]

“Heaven deliver us, what's a poet? Something that can't go to bed without making a song about it.”
― Dorothy L. Sayers

This was such a great read and this just shared the beauty of writing and being a poet!

[Frieda P]

Thanks Rosaria, glad you enjoyed this one!

[Tom C]

Oh that I may be one of the sacred few when day is done and time is spun to mix my dust with the poets.

[Frieda P]

Is that a quote, if not, it should be, thanks so much Tom.

[Barbara Walker]

There are many poets who will live on in the hearts and minds of their family and friends and hopefully their words mean something to them, also. Recognition is nice, whether reviews, being published or being paid for your work, but even without these, true poets write because they must. Love the line-"the blood we've shed through our written word."

[Frieda P]

Exactly Barbara, I concur, but it would be nice for someone to pick up our work off a dusty shelf one day and say, oh wow.....