Master Of The Art
Master of the Art|
'And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound' (Milay)
I pause in my reading,
my thoughts lingering on the verse,
Feeling the impact of a poet's mere words.
The textured leaves my fingers brushed,
in brittle waste they lay,
The plaintive song of sighing winds,
its melody softly plays.
And I, in wonder, so inspired
by this poet's brooding plight,
Take up my pen, search my soul,
and slowly begin to write.
'Mere words that cling to breaths from poets thoughts,
To linger still in patient pause until
The ink begins to fill the silent quill.
For truth, a poet's choice to scribe is naught.
These words...the master of the poet's mime,
Their muses lulled into poetic
With strings of verse or lyric prose perchance,
To breathe life into those thoughts born in rhyme.
Is the poets' one of service then
To scribe for the true master of the art?
Are the pieces scribed from the poet's pen
Their own to claim or must they share in part?
Perhaps, with words, a poem's life begins
But they are born of thoughts in a poet's heart.'
With trembling hand, I set down my pen
to read my scribbled words,
A meager dedication, I thought,
to a poet and her inspiring verse.
Absorbed am I in my musings and again,
for a second brief,
I listen to the plaintive call of the wind
and feel each brittle leaf.
That mere words could wield such power,
to touch a reader's heart,
Is a tribute to the poet's craft,
a true master of the art.
For I feel every word
As my winter soon approaches
And the memory of years gone by
Quoted excerpt from Edna St. Vincent Milay's poem
'When The Year Grows Old'
written and shared in ColinMacDonald's An Answer To You challenge
By Myrna D.
© 2018 Myrna D.
(All rights reserved)