[Glenn Wright]

Version 2

Poète Maudit

Medusa, Cain, and I all bear a mark.
My curse denies me any company.
No one may speak to me, no dog may bark.

My crime was feeling things too visibly.
Jesus in the Garden sweated blood;
I sweat my words, expressed for all to see.

Language flows from me, a constant flood,
burning my skin. I blot it onto pages
that drop from me like scales into the mud.

From deep inside, the poems come in stages—
Charon’s raft emerges from the dark—
they hold my joys, my strangest fears, my rages.

These are my monument, contain my spark.
Their ashes blow away as I embark.

——————————
Edits:
L1: Like Medusa and Cain, I bear my mark. > Medusa and Cain, like me, endured a mark. (Carl, Alexandra) > Medusa, Cain, and me—we bear a mark.> Medusa, Cain, and I, we bear a mark (Carl) > Medusa, Cain, and I all bear a mark. (Roger)
L2: My curse denies me friendly company. > My curse denies me any company.
L3: No one will speak to me, no dog will bark. > No one may speak to me, no dog may bark.
L 10: From deep inside, the poems come in stages, > From deep inside, the poems come in stages—
L 11-16 of original are deleted. (Rick)
L 11: (L 17 of original) Charon’s raft emerges from the dark. > like Charon’s raft emerging from the dark. > Charon’s raft emerges from the dark, > Charon’s raft emerges from the dark—
L 12: Some celebrate my joys, some vent my rages, > Some collect my joys; some flaunt my rages. > collecting my joys, my deepest fears, my rages. > collecting my joys, my strangest fears, my rages. > they hold my joys, my strangest fears, my rages.
L 13: They are my monument, contain my spark. > These are my monument, contain my spark.
L 18: of original is deleted (Rick)




Version 1

Poète Maudit

Like Medusa and Cain, I bear my mark.
My curse denies me friendly company.
No one will speak to me, no dog will bark.

My crime was feeling things too visibly.
Jesus in the Garden sweated blood;
I sweat my words, expressed for all to see.

Language flows from me, a constant flood,
burning my skin. I blot it onto pages
that drop from me like scales into the mud.

From deep inside, the poems come in stages;
an image, a line, and soon the sheets are filled.
Some celebrate my joys, some vent my rages,

all added to the pile of words I build.
Hedged by chaos, I tried to make some order
on every piece of paper that I spilled.

Now I approach the final, fatal border.
Charon’s raft emerges from the dark.
Here are my poems. I am the recorder.

They are my monument, contain my spark.
Their ashes blow away as I embark.