Secrets

I see you from afar
Stepping back half a lifetime
Or more
Or less

You seemed a fragile soul
Brittle to the touch
Shards, pieces, "please don't shake"
Not handled with care

Living, and dying, in poetry
Parallel understanding
Searching, needing, reaching
Ever short

Cry yourself to sleep when you could
In the thirteenth hour
Life and death conjoin and diverge
Much to your chagrin
Blessed sleep eludes

An owl to show the way
Hoot-hooting a message from the dead
From the past
From the present
To live is to write, is to die, is to live

Sweet goodbyes
Even though unaware
A saving grace
The last good deed
Care taken to ensure small lives

Immortal youth
While still possible
Beating insanity's race
Before the thirteenth hour

The fine line traversed
The final deal sealed scarlet
Blood for blood dried and dust
The dead hold their secrets close

Opinions scatter
Tortured soul
Trapped, seeking release
Insanity's bleak and coloured scapes
Enlightened, ensnared, enslaved

The dead hold their secrets close


I started writing a poem "Handled with Care" (no that is not a typo, Handled is the intended word, I saw the phrase on a moving truck, it stuck) but it had no direction...about a week ago. It found direction and completed itself in light of my current reading and brief investigation of a poet that a friend turned me onto. I am not in a position to comment on any technical observations, other than she didn't seem to like punctuation...(unless that is the fault of the transcriber)...which suites me just fine [;^). Anyway, I like what I have read so far. I see where she is heading with her writing, impression only mind you, but I cannot describe it plainly, which gives rise to the reworked "Handled with Care"...re-titled to ...I don't know what yet as I don't think it is complete...."Secrets" maybe, to keep it short. Lots of gaping holes yet to fill, more reading but it is a start. Like a skeleton it needs some meat and skin to complete it, a project for another day after I have read everything there is to read.

The poet is Sylvia Plath. Suicide in '63. I won't go on about anything here as anyone who might be interested can find all the same stuff I have found by just searching the web.

Jeff