Poets Gone to the Great Rest

Poets Gone to the Great Rest

 

They are

Gone

Yet

They remain,

In their words

That soothe

Our pain.

In our memories

Word pictures

Compose

Our imagination

In repose.

Their language

Stays,

It forms the

Grammar

And vocabulary

Of our days.

For them,

No composition

A tribute makes,

For in our redactions

Stare many mistakes.

But we are

In part,

Shaped by them,

We are

the better

for the craft

of their pen.

 

 

Simon C.J Falk   6 October 2016

 

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Stilled by the Skill

Stilled by the Skill

For the late Sylvia Plath (1932-63)

Stilled
By the skill
Of a greater
One.
One so
Tormented, yet
So masterful
With
The vivid
Word-pictures
Lighting up
The screen
Within
Our minds
Eye
As it spies
With delight
Her craft.
Plath,
Who’s pen
Paves a path
That reveals
Little
On a shallow sight.
But
Much, much more
Will pour
Forth,
As we still
Ourselves,
Truly look,
And drink
In
Within
The resonances
She evokes.
Humbled
I am,
Nearly dropping
My pencil forever,
Before
A greater craft.
A life
No more,
But in
Her words,
That remain,
Alive to us
And many.
Simon C.J. Falk 6 August 2015

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