Stillborn on the Conference Room Table

Oh, your poem's filled with so much detail,
Life so well observed: the glint of dewy
Cobwebs in the yard, lit by the morning sun,
The puff of sooty diesel smoke from tractor
Trailers setting out, the clink of gathered coffee
Cups upon the bus boy's serving tray, and all
The rest, some eighteen lines. The others at
The workshop smile and say you've done
A splendid job (and maybe not because
They hope that, when they read, you'll say
The same), but I'm not sure you have,
My friend. Beneath your piled images,
The poem doesn't move. It's dead,
The details little more than maggots
Writhing on a corpse.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 48 times
Written on 2019-12-02 at 16:57

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