Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Chris Song - poem #8 - reading a dead poet



reading a dead poet


I’d always write about the living
with my senses
pomegranate, wind’s sounds, tea
sometimes beyond those
love, border, sea
even the extraordinary

when bored
I would pick up your book
and think about death

at midnight
mice gnaw time 
at some dark corner
they bite your lines away

or are they roots
stretching deep down
to find their title

something beyond the senses
turns things upside down
the title becomes higher
than eyes can reach
the lines couldn’t be deeper

I’m still here, but you’re gone
nothing can be stranger
than me reading my translation
of your poems
I’ve always written about the living 

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