Whispers From The Dead Poet

Your words humble me,
you who wove exquisite fabric
from common thread.
We drink from the same stream,
that great River Continuum
where every poet has dipped.
Within its depths dwell all words
of passion, love and romance,
yet only a very few
pull out the sparkling gem
that catches the sun
within the dark dark deep.
Three thousand years of eyes
have looked upon these waters,
we sharers only of atoms,
our composite eye like the Graiae.

Introduce me to your muse,
that master connector of words.
Your stream must be somewhere
deep in the Thracian Mountains,
the one from which Orpheus drank.
You scorner of the abstruse phrase,
rejecter of haughty verbal barriers,
your song is clear and pure,
a precise tongue
seasoned with salt and honey
uttering verbal thrusts
that charm the demons of hell,
and like Orpheus,
stilling Cerberus,
stopping Ixion’s wheel,
and bringing tears to Pluto’s cheeks.
A candle that burns
at both ends
leaves only ash.
Gone the light that reflected
gold into your red hair
leaving nothing to embrace
but your infinite art.

by Duane Robert Pierson

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.