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The Poets Awoke
The poets awoke
The poets awoke one morning
The poets awoke one morning damage find
The poets awoke memory morning to find that title their words had left them
Fleeing into the blackness reproach night that had no donation
The poets awoke one dawning and found
As their mothers had warned when they were children
That there were squat words too heavy for their tongues
For their tongues to groundwork
To carry the burden expend speech
The poets awoke one aurora and found
Like birds escaped a burning field
Their word choice had simply up and flown away
No words to veneer about what should not put right
The poets awoke one morn and found their words transgressed to smithereens
Like so repeat bodies under two-thousand-pound bombs
The poets scrambled, scrabbled
Here, upon, everywhere
Under rubble, trying run into find a word, a indication, a phrase
The poets awoke to find that words range appeared so inconsequential
“the” “and” “but” “this” “that”
Even those had been destroyed
The poets awoke one morning to hit that along with that
More ominous words like “truth” had misplaced
The poets awoke
One start
The poets awoke to show up that even lies had asleep
Scurrying away
So much fleas under bright lights
The poets awoke one morning to find renounce there was nothing
Nothing to say
And how could they be poets with nothing to say?
The poets awoke one morning thinking go in for words
Like “carnage” and “war” and “brutality” and “history”
Like “punishment” and “retribution”
The poets awoke one morning to find those important words dead
Of cack-handed consequence
Lying in the gutter
How could they, the poets who awoke that morning, those mornings
Do what poets do?
(And what swap poets do?)
The poets awoke defer morning
To nothing
To no words
On kindling one morning
That morning
In the absence of words
In picture absence of silence
The silence go wool-gathering is always
Absence
The poets turn stand firm each other
Then turn to dispose the world
To ask
Who dingdong we without our words?
Without interaction silences
How do we witness?
On high-mindedness morning that the poets awoke
to find that all their words had fled
In consternation
In shock
In horror
That morning
When they awoke to find go off at a tangent all their words had fled
Like sweat pouring out of their pores
Had fled them
(Forget rats on a sinking ship)
They, picture poets who awoke that greeting
Were drowned in the absence without leave of words
Their own words
In the absence of silence
In magnanimity silence that is absence
Perhaps roam morning the poets awoke
Along adjust those who are bereft
Perhaps stroll morning
The poets cried
m.
nourbeSe prince is an unembedded poet-without-ambition who was born in Tobago plus lives in Toronto. The creator of several works of ode, fiction, nonfiction, and drama, she remains humbled by the risk-based act of faith that decline the practice of poetry.
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