The Dead

[Sparkydashforth]

I suppose this is yet another poem about 'my muse'.  Poetry and its inspiration can end up being a sprawling
psychodrama of a topic, and this work fits that general model. There's lots to like, but much more could be
described as 'show off' poetry.

The Dead


The dead feast on my flesh,
and I have bared it for them.

Once it was spring. Once, swings and whispers...............you seem to be saying that the Spring is a one off
                                                                                 time when your pen flowed with a free hand, but
                                                                                growing stale is a path we choose to tread, and creative Spring
                                                                                returns when we drop the artificial cleverness of writing.
brought enjoyment. But the cellar
opened, the notepad widened, and some ill-fated..............I like the cellar and notebook images.
woman in an ancient Greek dress
creeped in. Murderess! The basket fell,
a pomegranate rolled, and the text........................okay she's Greek, now your rolling into the predictable.
was filled with themes --
Adam and Eve, Adam and Eve, Adam and Eve.................mystified by all this.

(Always with the em dashes!
And that love of punctuation....).........................self indulgent lines

Writing should not be a toil. Days pass
and he's made nothing. He begins to fear
the red-haired woman with a Fury's eyes
would scold him for his lateness. Like a poem,
she should ask: "What kept you? What kept you?"
and, in bitter prose, he should deflate
to simple truth: "My Virtue failed.".........................this is your strongest stanza

So he changes his mind. In the beginning,
God made the heavens and the earth: as his spirit
hovered over the face of the waters, he said,
"Let there be light", and there was light --
and all writing came from that great light
like scars, brands on experience.......................sprawling and over-reaching blah

(Always with the em dashes!
And that love of punctuation....)...............now the lines feel like a nervous tick.

He scatters lamps across the ocean, in the hope
that she should follow. Should she follow?
Should she cross into his foggy land
and sacrifice her spirit world for flesh?...............I like the word made flesh theme
dye her hair, powder her skin, and wear
nails for bracelets, strips of leather
for a shirt? But all his wood is burned!
his hill has melted to a muddy flood,
his tomb, collapsed to reveal
flesh and bone and cloth consuming scarabs.........do scarab beetles eat cloth?

Moments pass. All his decisions, indecisions --
he considers them experiments. Ever the optimist,
he predicts that in another life...............................this displacement of inspiration to 'another life'
                                                              .............is the usual cop-out.

(What a splendid skill! not to spill
a single drop of blood, not to evoke
the memory of speech, of prophecy.).................no blood = no life......a petulant whine to end this at last.

Your signature - 'look at me' seems very apt.