Because we all want to write more poems.
Digging up the Bones of Pablo Neruda
Wake up, Neruda, we have questions
Were you poisoned? How did you die?
What will your bones tell us?
Are there truths to be extracted from your marrow?
Neruda you thought you would die of love
Or you hoped you would. But it was not that way
And so you died of communism and loyalty
We will search your remains for the truth
But we will find what we already know
Truth does not lie in the bones
It merely travels through your body
With the air you breath, the food you eat
At best, we will find out that
The bones of a poet are made of dust
And the truth is that all poets
Kill themselves eventually.
- Neil McKay's Shared Poems
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Comments
Michele McFadden
February 11, 2013
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Digging Up the Bones
So evocative. Such a yearning. What must we do when you lose a poet, a musician, a lover? Is our loss of them simply what we must bear to hear their beauty? We have questions. Yes. Such melancholic power.