Wednesday, August 15, 2012

A Poet's Lot




We do not ask for this
Beautiful torment
This dangling distraction
Of vowels and consonants
But we are lured and lavished
With their mystery; we are stirred
As we hunger to be ravished
By the perfect blend of word
And we cannot stop the whisper
Or the taunting of their mien
Are we servant; are we master?
We care not; but we are keened
For the taste of ink-filled fire
Ravaging the mundane blue
As we dance with the desire
Just to pen a line or two
Or three or four or perhaps twenty…
Look; who’s counting? matters not
As we strive to spill on paper
The hard-copy of our thought
As we dare to spill on paper
The hard-copy of our thought
This is our belov-ed labor
And it is the poet’s lot
This blessed, begging torment
To be word-smith to a thought

© Janet Martin

Somehow when I dip my hands in the sink, the scrub-bucket, the washing machine I pull out…a thought! This is the first day of ‘quiet-house’ all summer.

4 comments:

  1. Ah "To be word-smith to a thought", that's the life!

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  2. It is a delightful and sobering undertaking isn't it?

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  3. Brilliant, once again, Janet. Send this to Fellowscript. Well done. You are a true word artist.

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  4. Thank-you Glynis,

    I may give you a shout regarding the Submission Requirements.

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Thank you always for your visit and your thoughts.