Poetry

Why Poets Don’t Study Phenomenology

by Clark Cook

ghosts haunt me, slip at will
through cakes and tea, 
walks by lapping waves,
conversations with strangers who drift
in and out of my days, with women who
guide me through long nights
of exile within this skin

ghosts long for the beat of blood
that courses through my sagging veins
to the same beat as a foetus in Calcutta
the same beat as a billionaire in Vienna
or a singer dying from an overdose
between sets on the Las Vegas strip

those too are ghosts, 
remnants of time and reason—
lazy smoke rising slowly
from fires buried so deep
their heat has never been felt
their flames have never been
oooooooooooooooooooooooooseen

© clark cook
29 Oct 2017

***

About the author:

Clark Cook talked about literature with Canadian university students for over 30 years, and was actually paid to have so much fun. Retired now, he writes (mostly) poetry and fiction (working on two novels). His poetry has been awarded three first-prizes in publishers’’ competitions since 2014. Clark’s poetry weaves through the great myths, memories, and landscape on threads of image and metaphor to open potential new ways of Seeing for his readers. Maybe. If everything’s working. The poet and a son’s family co-occupy a home in the Vancouver area.

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Flashes

Created in 2014, Flashes is a privately owned literary website. We publish short stories, non-fiction, flash fiction and poetry. Our goal is to give talented writers a platform to showcase their creativity, with an emphasis on original voice, innovative style and challenging plots.

5 Comments

    1. M’gawd! We agree! Exactly what I was trying to achieve. Goodness. . .my pulse is racing. Be still my disbelieving heart. . . .

  1. I like this poem a lot. We don’t study it, we write it, and it bounces on and penetrates the skin, no matter how mint or used.

  2. A poem which convincingly links ladies who lunch and dying rockers, the unborn and the old, without feeling cliche, nihilist or grandiose. This is a poem which I will remember – not as lines of verse but as impressions shared from the poet’s own reveries on life.

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