The Ongoing Quandary of Poetry (to write or not to write)

 

Yesterday one of my lovely and thoughtful friends gifted me with a beautiful book

 of a poem-a-day for a year, written by a local man I know of, though do not know personally. 

In the first poem entitled To Write or Not to Write he tugged a tender chord in my own heart 

as he battled with the desire to be a good steward of a calling from the One who weaves us together

 in our mother’s womb, without appearing as if we think we have all the answers!

 ‘Yet not to write would build up tension’ he writes. 

Every writer/poet/lyricist knows that tension!!

So, we continue to seek courage and guidance from God 

and forgiveness and patience from fellowman in this labour of love called Poetry. 

Thank you, Elo Bowman, for having the courage to compile a book 

and encourage fellow poets and fellow-pioneers in/of an age called Today!

Thank-you Paula, for thinking of me when you saw this book!💝

Poetry is personal.

Poetry is pieces of a heart pressed to page

Poetry is prayer bared.

Poetry is pictures snared in script.

Poetry is a cup of tea, but not for all.

Poetry is a tangle of pain and pleasure;

A tango of trial and triumph

A lyric of love and longing

A hymn of heartache and hope;

A hope that somewhere someone was drawn a little closer

To the Giver of every good and perfect gift, 

and thus to Him...

To our One true, good and gracious God be the glory

for every groan grappled

and lilt lassoed,

forever and ever.

Amen!

If poetry was nothing more than fondness for tempo and rhyme

Methinks that ink could ill afford its very precious claim on Time

If by narcissistic grit alone we captured thoughts to press to page

How fickle then the font we hone, how futile the words we engage

Poetry is a warring tug, an ocean borne deep in the soul

The tenure of a tender hug that throbs where unpenned poems roll

The pleasure in Love’s laughing eyes as an elusive wink is snared

The sorrow of summer’s spent prize, life’s ups and downs suffered and shared

Poetry is a battle fought on fields only ink can estrange

A war-cry as want weeps for naught because of what it cannot change

A flicker fanned to sentiment as whispers brave the naked eye

As both critique and compliment are sparked where passion’s embers lie

Poetry is faith over fear; no sneer can quench quixotic sighs

The song and dance of smile and tear, reverberates in creature cries

And should confidantes be denied or should no fellow-friend be found

Poetry reaches far and wide to gather us on common ground

Darling, Twilight is closing in and morrow grants no guarantee

The tide that ebbs and flows within rushes like a vast poem-sea

A fearful and wonderful deep, to dredge once more if God so wills

And by the kindness of His keep to trust Him for the ink that spills

For poetry is a like a voice crying in word-world’s wilderness

And the poet must master choice with Awe’s conscientious finesse

Because poetry will outlive the hand that bares ballad to light

Therefore, it behooves us to give earnest heed to the lines we write

Janet Martin

James 1:17

Every good and perfect gift is from above,

 coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights,

 who does not change like shifting shadows.