Monday, February 25, 2013

Travail of a Poem...a sonnet



 

When your hour comes there’s an ache surreal
Where thought cannot quell the urge you beseech
Grasping at whispers just beyond my reach
I close my eyes, leaning to your appeal
As unformed longing groans, moans for release
Borne on a surge of pleading mystery
Pain, pleasure and purpose blend intimately
Stoking a measure of formless increase
For your invocation of throbbing travail
Rushes in torrents through bulwarks of flesh
Testing heart-levees, boldly you enmesh
Your ethereal murmurs beneath skin’s frail veil
I tremble for, pray, who am I to spell
The poem to shape your relentless swell?

Somewhere within wanton fathoms converge
The startling summons of consonants lash
Nature of mortal and immortal clash
Yet who would rally to stifle the surge
Of word that is willing to be much more
And hope that is yearning to spill in rhyme?
I cannot argue with trifles like Time
Where oceans of unwoven lines implore
Man is not born to appease his own want
Or drift like a bateau without port or goal
Though lackadaisical havens may taunt
We are the vessels that harbor a soul
Earnestly then, we bend into the gale
Trusting the Hand on our helm to prevail

The fruit of our toil is more dear and sweet
When we have endured its labor and fear
What is life’s spoil but a day or a year?
A pulse of moments that never repeat
Humbly we bow, not because we are weak
But because in weakness Love intercedes
Succoring mortal and immortal needs
The pen would fall like a tear on the cheek
Save for the comfort that somewhere, somehow
Far down the age its extolment remains
To smile to the one who thirsts for the rains
Found in the ink-drops that earnestly flow
Shaping the whispers of comfort and Home
Wrapped in the tender-sweet arms of a poem

© Janet Martin

It's no use...one cannot fight the urge of a poem:)

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