Where The Poet Once Gave Words


Where The Poet Once Gave Words

 The poet has died

He, whose thoughtful strokes of ink

Are now

Like drifts of morning mist

Has died

His words have become old now

He has not even written it

And it is gone

Like transient lines

Traced out upon palest sands

Like writing on water

Unable to go deeper

You become further from it

When you seek it

The poet has died

And the poet exists no more

With him died

All that is beautiful and sacred

With him disappeared

All for which one can live and die

All that is creative is reduced

Before you can read it, it is gone

What remains

Stands without a context

Nobody understands that language any more

A tremendous flood of meaninglessness

The truth is just like this

Turbulently whirled aloft in flight

Like burning leaves

Upon a wild black wind

Entertain no doubts

Cast them off

What was an interplay of lights

Illuminating the obscure

What was images and words corresponding

What were worlds of beauty and danger

As ripples on an ancient lake

As stories long carved in stone

Once revealed

Through the pages of the poet

Are now lost

On dark paths of ignorance

What exists in the name of poetry

Is a consequence

Of the uninformed mind

It has becomes more subtle

Quenching all the flames

Of troubling passion

And now there is only silence

A deep, empty, silence

Where the poet

Once gave precious words

© Ann Bagnall 2014.

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