Ghost writers, whiter shade of pale,
but which is shade, witch poltergeist
as long-dead poets read again,
in relived lines, past death reversed.
Those deadlines met before obits,
in time re-hearsed, All Hallows Eve,
their moving finger, writ moved on,
prophetic call, the poet’s wall.
Fake news, or license, take your pick,
like Xanadu, by drug induced;
so post replies of sympathy,
make me a cheat in poetry.
What should I do, hoax history,
my story read, testimony,
when it is observation, sole,
revealing truth, though whole excised?
So should I cease those stanza works
assumed biography in genre,
reel story nearly as if real,
as would a patron, could for cash.
It is a novel way to write,
to weigh each word, exactitude;
a bio, graphic, not allowed,
though permit issued, verse aloud?
Because dilemma recognised
should I set warnings, trigger so?
And where would Dewey have me be -
some friction in veracity?
The ability to truly empathise and walk in the shoes of another is what makes great writing. I guess with poetry, for the reader, the lines can become blurry as to whether the writer is describing their own thoughts and experiences or that of another. Does it matter? I don’t think it does - what matters is that the reader connects with your writing. If the poem was there with no acknowledgement as to who wrote it, I think people may not necessarily assume it was about the poet. It’s just when you know that person and a poem evokes a reaction, particularly one of sympathy, not to respond with concern in the event it may be the poets own…