“It starts with something visible,
Or often something audible,
Which, since the thought’s intangible,
Seems O! so inexpressible,
Your whole soul reels beneath its power
And you could gladly gaze an hour.
But as you gaze, a gossamer
Of Thought’s fine thread, so bright, so pure,
So simple at its infant start,
Is softly flung about your heart–
And, scarcely sensible at first,
You spin more thread with eager thirst,
Half hoping, half denying that
This slender trail could last. But at
The moment you accept its birth,
The Thought sets out to prove its worth
By multiplying hundredfold–
More supple thread than you can hold
All flying round your throbbing mind
At speeds the eye could never find!
Bright inspiration blurs the air!
But finally one thread you snare
To follow to its satiate end
In hopes that truth and beauty blend.
You scramble for a pen and page–
Or iPad, since they’re all the rage–
To copy down the thoughts that come,
Cords braiding into rope–till some
Are tangled in their own wild race
Because of their amazing pace.
Stanzas creep slow–then all at once!–
As for a meter your mind hunts,
Until the thoughts and words and rhymes
Weave smooth and swift, in perfect time.
A rhythm sets your toes a-tap
And breaths through every word a snap
That sets them marching down the page,
In themes that can be sprite or sage.
A music soon your working weaves,
That plays across your soul and leaves
It incandescent with the glow
That only music-makers know–
Intoxicated with the wine
Of knowing you have, line on line,
Called words to muster that will hold
Steel siege upon a human soul–
Your own, so inundated by
The silvery strings that through you fly,
Has spun itself into the web
Wrought by your poem’s flow and ebb.
Your rhymes may be a fudge of faults–
Still, words alone whirl you a waltz!
What if your theme’s a wayside clod?
Well-wardrobed words walk silver shod.
Your meter may be slaughtered sore
By uninitiated bores
Who yawn and yap about the need
To bury literature with speed,
And how the thrills of sports and cars
(And military stars and bars)
Leave poetry quite out of date
And label poets “born too late.”
BUT those who’ve trod enchanted shores
And learned again forgotten lore–
Those poets who have heard and seen
A music that few even dream–
Are gifted, to speak fluently
The language of pure poetry.”
written by Libby
photo by Libby