What a beautiful, powerful poem. It turned my eyes toward the forgotten, neglected, invisible. I wonder, does my reading your poem make the forgotten son less forgotten? If none of the weeping, forgotten sons know that I am reading your poem, are they any less invisible when I read your poem?
I am reminded (often) of your poem of the dog, almost run over by a driver. It ends:
Sharp and brutal images... from the silence of the sleepy cocoon to the snarl and sizzle of the wasps, a very urban terror uncovered by gentrification. Perfectly titled creeping horror, a different kind of ghost. I can't stop thinking of the man and his son.
What a beautiful, powerful poem. It turned my eyes toward the forgotten, neglected, invisible. I wonder, does my reading your poem make the forgotten son less forgotten? If none of the weeping, forgotten sons know that I am reading your poem, are they any less invisible when I read your poem?
I am reminded (often) of your poem of the dog, almost run over by a driver. It ends:
Why do poets think
They can change the world?
The only life I can save
Is my own.
Not true, not true.
Sharp and brutal images... from the silence of the sleepy cocoon to the snarl and sizzle of the wasps, a very urban terror uncovered by gentrification. Perfectly titled creeping horror, a different kind of ghost. I can't stop thinking of the man and his son.
you feel the beauty in the lines because it's so good that way
Poignant. Sad.
WOW! I have shivers on this one.