• Richard Fenwick ~ Author/Poet

"Poets of a Dead Language"

Poets of a Dead Language

Let's imagine them in a circle

at a fire pit that has burned for days,

and final feathers of sun to paint

the sky in every shade of red

Perhaps they sip a sour wine

as the quiet one chants a tribal tale:

dragon smoke and gathered clouds

black, like nighttime rivers,

or how the moon scrubs demons

to guard them as they sleep.

Let's say they had a word for him

and render it as poet. Let's say

we sip our wine and speak

his tongue, draped in a thousand

winters past, chant our tales

beside this gray-scaled fire,

each word a stone that rings

our pit in songs of songs, each

memory a dead poet, tossed

like bone-white paper planes

in twilight skeins of time.

Copyright 2012

Another creamy poem by Richard Fenwick that has me re-reading it because the first time through felt so good. A poem about mythical poets of bygone times, and the poetic spirit that endures through time. A peek at the world of those that leave their indelible peeking at the world through their poetry. As a poet, that's a beautiful thing. For the reader, hopefully, it will fulfill.


g. Michael Handgis Photography


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