12-27-2011, 03:46 PM
First Revision 28/12
When a poet dies.
There is nothing.
No channel for wisdom or wit.
Closely gathered in corners of his bed-sitting room
unclaimed, unwritten words wait for life.
New phrases and old phrases, revamped,
huddle on wardrobe tops
eager to be marshalled and drilled.
But he’s gone.
Bewildered, they bunch in nonsensical groups
timid frightened and, sad.
In silence they weep
as slowly they sink
to mingle with the dust layered there.
They cling to the kettle, the cooker, the fridge
a patina of waste.
There is no-one to
shape - mold,
push, cajole, or coerce.
No one left to create
an everlasting verse.
----------------------------------------------
There is nothing.
No channel for wisdom or wit.
Unclaimed, unwritten words
wait for life
closely gathered in corners of his bed-sitting room.
New phrases and old phrases, revamped,
huddle on wardrobe tops
eager to be marshalled and drilled.
But he’s gone.
Bewildered, they bunch in nonsensical groups
timid frightened and, sad.
In silence they weep
as slowly they sink
to mingle with the dust layered there.
They cling to the kettle, the cooker, the fridge
a patina of waste.
There is no-one to
shape or mould,
to push, cajole or coerce,
to create
an everlasting verse.
I also need input for the poem's title - this started life as 'When a poet dies'
When a poet dies.
There is nothing.
No channel for wisdom or wit.
Closely gathered in corners of his bed-sitting room
unclaimed, unwritten words wait for life.
New phrases and old phrases, revamped,
huddle on wardrobe tops
eager to be marshalled and drilled.
But he’s gone.
Bewildered, they bunch in nonsensical groups
timid frightened and, sad.
In silence they weep
as slowly they sink
to mingle with the dust layered there.
They cling to the kettle, the cooker, the fridge
a patina of waste.
There is no-one to
shape - mold,
push, cajole, or coerce.
No one left to create
an everlasting verse.
----------------------------------------------
There is nothing.
No channel for wisdom or wit.
Unclaimed, unwritten words
wait for life
closely gathered in corners of his bed-sitting room.
New phrases and old phrases, revamped,
huddle on wardrobe tops
eager to be marshalled and drilled.
But he’s gone.
Bewildered, they bunch in nonsensical groups
timid frightened and, sad.
In silence they weep
as slowly they sink
to mingle with the dust layered there.
They cling to the kettle, the cooker, the fridge
a patina of waste.
There is no-one to
shape or mould,
to push, cajole or coerce,
to create
an everlasting verse.
I also need input for the poem's title - this started life as 'When a poet dies'