She was a Poet, Once

A poet fears to forget

The heart, all those ashes and treasures

 

A poet remembers life in code

A dreamy cherishing of an over-appreciation

 

For words, unseen connections, illusions

Amputated by love

 

All those years of friendlessness

A poet fears to forget the suffering

 

Because that is what made me write

The ‘you-won’t-have-me s’ of life

 

The youth where we felt ourselves

A solider of art, oh how many years ago?

 

A poet does not grow up or does she

Having children, writing less

 

With not enough time to dance

With not enough freedom to think of freedom.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

the old days...all the writing...listening to simon and garfunkel and dylan..being inspired by them, by love, by my friend who was a wonderful poet...

all these things pass by me as i read this...

i especially like this line: "for words, unseen connections, illusions/ Amputated by love"

that is so so good.

jacob

[Michael Kevin Spencer]

I can see how poets live in their illusions, but the thing about escapism is this: we all live in alternate realities anyway, I don't see anything wrong with this.

Having said that, I'd consider poetry roughly the equivalent to hard drugs in its potential to get an over-dose on. Future fMRIs will show....

[Emily B]

the poet longs for freedom, to fly on sure wings