Craft [The first great poet]

The first great poet of the crisis the one whose generation was left as if firebombed though if you look back at the seminal work you will see that only a handful of of the poems explicitly
 touch on that dark time
 the blood filling with
 virulence and the night
 always black and spangled with stars says
 when faced with difficult material the
 poet should begin obliquely creeping in
 from the edge a square
 of light moving imperceptibly across the floor as the earth turns and so I will tell you
 that ever since I saw the
 footage of the journalists hiding in the attic the rope ladder pulled up after them only the one with foreign papers left to stand her ground down below the journalist at first calmly sitting on the couch but then huddling in a cabinet as the soldiers enter the apartment next door, the cries of the mother floating through the wall ib’ni ib’ni the language ancient like something whetted on stone the way I image language would have sounded in the broken mouth of King DavidAbsalom Absalom the man-child hanging by the shining black noose of his own hair in the fragrant woods of Ephraim ib’ni ib’ni next door the sound of
 a body being dragged
 from the apartment as
 his mother wails into the dark how many mothers and how
 many sons dragged out
 into a night spangled
 with stars where everything is a metaphor for virulence my son my son and ever since I saw a clip of the footage the foreign journalist managed to smuggle out of the country images of the journalist herself hiding in a space meant for buckets and rags as next door the soldiers
 drag away a young boy
 please hear it again a
 child of no more than
 twelve his mother’s lamentations forever seared in the blood of this thing I call my life but really what is it what is this light I hold so dear it wants to move imperceptibly across the floor as the earth turns so as not to become too aware of itself?