Browsing all poets.com
by Gopi Kottoor
[ poetry - january 08 ]
This morning I put on the internet
and looked up the poets I used to read
when young. And found,
the common factor
among them looking out of their photographs,
was that that most of them
were dead.
James Wright, 52, with a small bulb on his tongue
that turned out to be cancer,
or Eberhart, who hit his soft 101.
Something stood out of them all.
The lines I knew, I always knew,
after all these years of wear and tear,
that came forth with the freshness of red bleeds
from the whiteness of the buried heart,
of the dead groundhog in the afternoon sun
or the wasted hammock in the shade.
