Plath and Akhmatova wore braids
I braid my hair as it messily cascades
Only when alone, behind pulled down window shades
How many poets braid their hair?
My braids may hold in the pain
Spilling out of the brain
Onto an aged page with a tear stain
How many poets feel despair?
Dickinson wore white
Pure and still, no sign of bite
But look at the dashes along the pages’ right
How many poets are secretly raging?
I wear lots of black
Like Chekhov’s Masha I mourn life’s lack
No dashes, but ellipses, deceptively laid back
How many poets are disengaging?
Tsvetaeva wore her endurance well
Starving and sick in a Russian hell
Writing “I Know The Truth” was her death knell
How many poets politically suffer?
I write in freedom with no fear of war
As do most of us modern poets anymore
But political correctness makes us forget what we stand for
How many poets use politeness as a buffer?
© 2014 ViataMaja, Laminas