First Edit: Wannabe/Death of a Poet

[danny_]

Hey Richard, this latest revision was the first I read. Comparing it to previous, I like this one best. I agree the dreams of teenagers didn't really fit well, even though I think I understand what you were intending; better left out. Also it's overall more clear and succinct. As far as clarity: "My eye sockets might even feel useful again." I take it that such an imagined award might cause your eyes to feel useful again... but why sockets? Or are they already buried when they feel useful? In that case they cannot feel anything. I mean really, what would those eye sockets see but darkness? But if alive, they would be just "eyes", right? That line throws me. Everything else feels pretty intact.

"Is it normal" could possibly be improved, especially as the opening line. Whether or not it's normal may be irrelevant. Is that the real issue of the poet, how normal it is? I have a little idea:

Here again I am fantasizing
about an award named for me,
imagining myself deep
beneath the weight of soil

Well, I only write this to help you consider what is the real concern of the poet? Being normal, or maybe not even knowing what the concern is? Or is it something in particular?

For the last line: all words are but gasps / lost in the night. 

This reminds me of a song where the lyrics go:
"Let the poets cry themselves to sleep.
All their tearful words will turn back
into steam."

This is a well-done poem expressing a viewpoint that nothing we say could ever really matter that much. (I personally disagree on that   )

Final notes: Wannabe doesn't do any justice to this poem as a title. (I think you already changed it, good!) Even Death of a Poet could be better, because he hasn't died yet... just dreaming of it. Maybe just sounds a little... cliche, in terms of using words like "death" and "poet" in a title. I mean, the poem is kind of a specific heart-felt pondering of a certain individual. Maybe... My Death as a Poet? Just thoughts, but it's not a bad title if you decide to stick with it.

Good work.

Death of a Poet

Is it normal to fantasize
about an award named for me?
To imagine myself
beneath the weight of soil,
my lipless teeth trying to smile,
my rotted brain telling the worms,
with each bite they take,
of a legacy summed up in a title?
My eye sockets might even feel useful again.

But like those dying, who open
their eyes one last time,
I know there is no man-made
immortality-  all words are but gasps
lost in the night.