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The Alter of Verse Asks Much

Contributed by Invierno on Wednesday, 23rd December 2015 @ 01:08:57 AM in AEST
Topic: poets




Words are not coins to be purchased with ease of fingers grasping bottoms of pockets.
One wouldn/'/t give a shilling- try to sell the word /'/silly/'/, or any word really,
forlorn and singular heard.
But, oh!, when one robs time from life to the climb, to lariat letters in paged corral;
Oh my! Why, then thy primordial stirrings do seethe!
words springs to knees, sentences breathe,
to a letter painstakingly staged;
now born they hold power, give birth to love/'/s flower
to bloom or crush youngest or most aged of hearts;
Yet, life being life, there/'/s always a price- poems steal time first as a start.
.

But to arrange from a word-pool most disarrayed,
and massage into purpose one sees-
this wording gift is not without cost-Oh! by no means is it free.
Ticking and tocking, time preciously knocking, as life ever clicks to loves beat,
this foreign bleat and strain deaf to the brain to busy
fishing, this poet fisher
endless casting for just the very right word.
Thus time is sought, ďOh, woe is me!, I now see and know
the price is paid for and bought, though not I to be;
alas, only by thee, all for my heart to be heard.
My dear, My dear,
I love thee beyond as love has ne/'/er /'/fore in me stirred.

Hours at times for one sentence sought rhyme, taxes not only poet but others.
The child, a lover, Wife or Husband, all live on without their arranger;
indeed, strains show our need,
oft through smiles at our thin veiled wiles,
the poet pleading to end one or start;
words wrestling to poem, eager to show it,
(and well both know it)
the cost painful and not always worth this loss
paid in chase of worded art.

The iambic seeking, pentameter creeping fingers tap long in the night;
loved ones slumber, alone and resigned (to many times), or not,
as it may be;
seclusionís/'/ requirement, silent retirement, to our loved, selfish well we may seem;
but sometimes the beauty, the tingling netting, nuance frail as gossamer sheen;
it is then, it is when our symphony swells, soul sweeping all cost,
dismissing all loss in attainment of poetic perfection/'/s dream.




Copyright © Invierno ... [ 2015-12-23 01:08:57]
(Date/Time posted on site)





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Re: The Alter of Verse Asks Much (User Rating: 1 )
by unknown_utopia on Thursday, 24th December 2015 @ 01:03:53 AM AEST
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I stand and applaud.....
"it is then when our symphony swells"
classic poetic crescendo,
thanx for sharing.


Re: The Alter of Verse Asks Much (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Thursday, 24th December 2015 @ 03:16:12 AM AEST
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anytime, even a quick moment
in time at anytime is good enough
I have no interest in perfect --- which is easy enough to see
I am okay with being just plain dumb
And by that I do not mean to boast
this dog I know says to me
I think this dog thinks I used to be a dog
Or still thinks that I am a dog
It throws its front legs at me like I am a dog too
Follows me around, I know the dog thinks I will
playfully bite at the scruff of his neck
Then I think, maybe this dog is really a human
Someone I used to know in a different life
Is that not strange?

Peace!


Re: The Alter of Verse Asks Much (User Rating: 1 )
by softerware on Friday, 25th December 2015 @ 11:21:28 AM AEST
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This dances all over the stage of the poet/'/s creation! Seldom do artists (and you are an artist!) reflect on the hours their craft steals from those near them whether it is hours of piano practice; late night guitar; or dance rehearsal; the time is spent while family must be content to stand in the shadow.
There are so many amazing phrases " When one robs from life to the climb, to lariat letters in paged corral!" Your wording gift, sir, is selfishly endorsed by those who read your writes here! Perhaps that is where the balance lies. The thundering conclusion offers solace to the artist as it begs empathy from their partners, " dismissing all loss in attainment of poetic perfections dream. "
You have a gift for romanticizing and visual imagery that distills your thoughts into an art form, and for your iambic seeking, pentameter creeping searches...fellow artists and casual readers alike, cannot help but join the conspiracy!
softerware




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