The Poet As Dr, Frankenstein Poem by Jan Sand

The Poet As Dr, Frankenstein



My floor is littered
With corpses.
The older they get,
The more they stink.
Each one began with great hope.
The idea was the seed.
Three or four words
That held hands in cunning design.
Poised, I thought, to dance and laugh.
Some of my blood,
Some of my guts
Was fitted to their syntax.
I rocked back their heads.
Their eyes opened with a clack.
'Dance! ' I commanded.
Each in turn faltered, spun,
Seemed, to my ear to have grace.
I left each one to live.
When I returned to look again,
They lay there on the floor
In disordered clumsy words.
Playing God with words
Is not easy.
Will I ever get it right?

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