"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.
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.