Sunday, August 12, 2012

Daedalus To His Son

This is the song that we were born to sing:
As we grow old, we lose our precious wings.
The birds of heaven, boy, aren’t what they seem:
We’re tethered to the earth – we think; they dream
This ground, my child, was fashioned out of stone
While men, like birds, are made of  fragile bone.
Maybe at night, young men dream of flying.
I can’t remember: my dreams are of dying.
Live while you can; it isn’t meant to last.
Get in the car; I’ll teach you to drive fast.


Anne said...

I came here and read some poems. I like them better than a lot of what I read on the internet, but I'm no judge, being just a very old woman educated in the sciences and not particularly literary. I spent some time this morning trying to understand what "language poetry" is but gave up in the end. I specially like your poem about cremation.

Eamonn Lorigan said...

Thanks for reading,it's nice to know I'm not throwing this stuff entirely into the void. Oh, and the clearest definition for "language poetry" is "bullshit".

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