WAYSIDE
the worst ones
that fell by the wayside
had to be poets
what other conclusion
can we come to?
what wealth do they bring
unto themselves
and unto all of humanity
with words and lines
well beyond the general reach?
I think about
why this
should be so, plainly
it seems to resist explanation
this compulsion to
act otherwise, play
in a different key
sing
a different song
so far beyond my comprehension
I have to reach for
the oddest of all metaphors
to get my head around it
THE WORD the scholars are wedded to the death of the author and friend Roland and friend Michel are clear that the word will flow where it wants to go will speak fof itself but you poets under bombardment either casualties or still survivors your words are gated, fenced in have no means of escape, nowhere to go but however softly whispered somehow become targets sought out for destruction, best censorship that can be what is it about these words small words soft words that seem so powerful inspire such hatred and such fear?
BUT THEN
poets marrying poets
do not do well
let me labour
the obvious: on
the one hand
Ted
on the other
Sylvia
and on the other
I leave that to those
scrutinizing their
letters
delving into
their lives
this whole enterprise
a dubious affair looking
for dubious affairs
something
about love and poetry
in this configuration
such a curious mismatch
amusing in a sense
but then there is death
KILLER
daleks and poets
it is the old antagonism
they have their bombs
and wire and goebbels-bibles
we have
our metaphors and
satire that can kill
and now we are free range
and open targets
better we genocide
them “the people” say
but
we are sitting
on ancient weapons,
your words
rallying to our cause are
exposing your
bleakness
rebelling against you
even
as you speak
(if you call it speech)
and
come to think of it
cowboys and aliens
in the sacred spot of their
crash landings
this is a juicy antagonism
turned connection
the cosmos putting this
planet to
strangest use
(a poem
here
never
make the news)
CLOCKWORK
like clockwork
everyday
somewhere
in the world
a poet
jumps under a train
they know
it’s a poet
because
they find poems
send them to me
to fix, to edit
a labour of love it is
piecing them together
making them
whole
editing
out
all
the
stuff
that might
derail the project
all the unconscionable hurt
and real raw pain
UNDESERVED
take it away
take this away
keep
well to yourself
I refuse to read rhis
we refuse to read this
you have nothing
to sell
you havs sold everything
this poem is immired in
bloodshed and murder
holy lies,
false propaganda
the slaughter of poets
right next door, through
the barbed wire
right outside
your secure (impossibly
insecure)
contrived
golden cage
take them awsy
these poems, your writings
this so-called poetry
forgive me
forgive us
if we give them
the contempt we feel
where you tell us images,
symbols,
metaphors
we see
only blood, find only
complicity
no matter how much you
tell yourself
do everything human
and barely human
to convince us
it is
undeserved
and so
plesse go
we csn suffer you no longer
take your sad, broken
failure of
a Muse with you
and
just disappear
poems 2 die for