I sit with quill, the feathered head
And milky parchment, words unsaid.
There off the mat, so dark and smooth
The inkpot sits, detached... removed.
But with quill in hand, at a wooden desk,
Dip the pen in ink, the dripping fluid grotesque
To me. And then words form with such ease
That it seems the atique muses I might yet appease.
Word and line, verse to stanza
A literary extravagansa.
Then something strange to me befalls
When time encroches within my walls,
I suddenly have no more to say
I've found that there is no more day.
So I sign my name, "Trinity"
to wait for others' eyes to see
And speak their minds with honesty.
It is for them, I beg partake
of poetry for po'try's sake.
A contest entry
- Another Poetic Theory by Judith Chandler.
525 points, ended April 19, 2008, 7 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
If you like it, please tell me so.
Comments
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A nice, visual sort of write -- the desk, the pen, the ink. A final proofing would have been helpful; you've ended up with some typos.
Thanks for entering my contest. -
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Yeah, I wrote on the spur of the moment 'cause I liked the idea of the contest. Sorry 'bout the typos.
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