Is the rain naked
When she washes the streets?
For spring and flowers
For returns of prosperity
Is the snow cold
To visit the earth?
The wet dark earth
That has nothing to give
But shelter and a place to land?
Is the rose afraid of being seen?
With her lips turned into petals
And the moist dew
Clinging to her wings?
Does the heart regret to love?
That caused a woman so much pain
Is there anything in this world sadder
Than the old man pursued by
Only bees, without belonging?
It was Not a heart beating
On the night-shift, for it always does that
It was not the chill of memory
Not the blood in the ears
Of Fate, it was the nativity
Of time confounded by
How inept the hours felt
In the Silver factory of the void
There were indefatigable facts
That drove in the company
Of self-judgement, that seemed
Extraordinarily bright in the quiet
Night, and my heart circled
The Shadows before a rising sun.
My last poem broke through
Harbors, like lost ships, journeys
Ready for the scrap yard
Junk sales, that’s where I found my love
The rusted submarines of
So much idealistic passion
Like spilled cargo, that never
Reached its final destination, listless
After years of searching the wrong
Seas, continents too prosperous
Broken contracts, memory white
With the regret and guilt of loss
The kind of romantic sailors that assure you –
The Sea can make you go crazy
Ready to rejoin the world, without skills
My last poem is ready to sell-out
And be a different kind of martyr
I try not to count the ships, as dreams
Or the people I lost along the way
But that way of life ruined all prospects
Art, were the ruthless waves
Where I sacrificed and risked everything
And lost, my last poem was an admission
Of the darling pupils of my muse
That I will never see again, least of all in verse.
With careful fragments I’ve built
A shredded identity, pillaged by hope
Ransacked by heart-break
I’ve customized my grief
To the rapture of my outlaw-state
In glowing morning I feared
Being left, and prophesized abandonment
In which my very atoms
In the cosmic mirror, were scattered
I couldn’t help martyrhood
Like the shell of my grandmother in me
How we give our power away
And how those authorities contrive
To judge our worth, in quick months
Of evolutionary design, bitter comments
That I remember to this day
About the kind of man I am
With careful foolishness I betrayed
The self, that wanted to join in marriages the most
A wild execution of the simplicity
That marked me from my childhood
Of having been raised in poverty
Boycotted from those simple joys
I am a frenzied bargain of dreaming cheeks
Without the spice of wonderful confidence.
broken-hearted, confession, confidence, doubt, fear, martyr, Plath, poetry, power, regret, self-worth, single-mother, vulnerability, weakness