I am compelled to write about Mount St. Helens
Even though I sit here in Texas, in the fever of clear blue air,
Too far away to know how. I cannot write about her fitful sleep,
Restless with nightmares whose boundaries novaed,
...
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Yes, you’ve said ma'am this is dedicated to poets who died in Mount St. Helens...but if we look at broadly. this has a very universal value..the world has crumbled in to a very pathetic state....we really don't know how many people die, how many writers or poets die before they expressed themselves...In fact the artists who live in those pathetic war torn places have lot to share with the world...but most times they die very young...or even if they search their pockets and find the works they v done, very rarely those works are shown to the world...you v expressed it very well indeed......nice one 10++
I do not know these things on my skin, on my eyelids, fingertips. My tongue has not scorched dry from the constant taste of ash.....................wonderful exposition of stance as when smitten.................with gallantry of imagery, yet ingenious by grace, well penned,10+, thanks for sharing
'I cannot write...', 'I do not know...' but you do write, and you do tell us most eloquently of the unknown horrors, but the thought that some unknown poet might have described them all at first hand makes a telling ending.
This was written in 1980 after the eruption of Mount St. Helens, and is dedicated to all poets caught in the jaws of disasters both natural and man-made.
Beautiful. Love the last stanza most. 10++