The Poet

A poem about the Poet.

Like Shakespeare, the Poet writes his poem
With a steady hand round his yellow quill.
Dreaming sensual dreams, his soul yells
Speaking wisdom with bodacious words he fills
blank pages into books-- pen in ink well;

He burns the midnight oil as he writes--
A radical young rebel with new ideas,
Staring out the window his fancy takes flight
Like a dozen butterflies in velvet skies;

His heart skips with each rhyme and rhythm
From his quill as his words glide across the page.
His words paint a multi-coloured scene like a prism
Reflecting his heart with the sagaciousness of a sage;

Projecting love, hate, compassion with each stroke
Like a craftsman he knits and weaves his words;
Playing with the ancient language he spoke,
Not with tongue but with words to be heard
Not by the ear, but with the eyes;

The author, connives and schemes all day
Knitting his brows he opens up his mind
And listens carefully to the Muses' symphony;
And then inspiration comes like the minnow.


Spinning tales of  love between a man and a woman,
Making love in a small yellow dingy out at sea;
The poet weaves each story with a crafty hand
Into these lacy tapestries he calls Poetry;

Like Shakespeare, taking pen to paper,
The poet sits by the window near his lamp;
And dreams of being a famous author----
His name engraved upon his book like a stamp.




Mary Aris© 2010

All Rights Reserved

 

Reviews

[Eli]

Well I can certainly relate to this with my writing. I have offically begun writing the story itself after a year. I strarted up twice before but didn't get passed paged two. I have so much history done and some in the works so it feels like I'm writing about a real world.