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


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