I cannot make you last ten thousand years,
Withstanding all the buffetings of time.
I can't see unborn days: not even seers
Can well-predict the winds befalling rhyme.
Now poetasters deem me obsolete,
Dismiss my work as labored with the past,
Yet winds of change might winnow the effete,
And leave cathedrals built on rock at last.
I cannot breathe your breath beyond your time,
Nor bestow immortality with love,
And thus won't guarantee you the sublime,
Not to pledge wares that I've no promise of.
Yet as the eternal lives then, word by word,
God will correct me: your truth will be heard.
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A lovely sonnet
Who may tell what words will last
when all the stars will dim and die.
We cup our dreams within our hands
then set them loose and let them fly.
All that's known is what is past
so who may tell what words may last?
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I love this! You made me look a word up; I have heard of rhymester or versifier but never a Poetaster. What a cool word! I also don't think your poetry obsolete.
Love,
Amera♥
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Thank you dearly, Doc! It's an honor!
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I cannot breath your breath beyond your time,
Breathe your breath? It seems to make more sense that way.
Anyone who thinks your style of poetry is obsolete is bonkers. I am sitting listening to Beethoven and was just discussing Van Gogh's art. What is full of life, like your beautiful verse, shall endure.
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Thank you so. Maybe I should add an e. I love Chopin too, and all classical music, and jazz and rock and roll, etc. I think we all squabble too much in the arts. We're all on the same side.
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Like Duke Ellington said: "If it sounds good, it IS good!"
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Dear Purrsanthema,
Whether we go to Heaven or realms infernal,
while still on Earth it is our cherished hope
to leave inscribed some vestige of our scope,
that what we've written may survive eternal.
Though, in our lifetime, readers may be few
and disappointment cloud our blithe creation
yet, hopefully, we'll gain appreciation
as future generations read anew.
It ever was with prophets in their prime,
that those inferior scorned their dire predictions
who else might have avoided the afflictions
which plagued their later tribes in later time.
Though what we write may not hold sway today
fear not ! Our words will, one day, have their say.
I consider this among the finest of your many excellent sonnets and, by its title and subject, it cries out to be your second inclusion in the Wyleian collection. I ask you to honour us by including it as number CCXLII (#242).
if you agree, please add the appropriate suffix to the title and sign your ID at the end of the poem.
I cannot give higher praise than this invitation. Congratulations, thanks, applause, love and hugs, XXX Hugh.
PS: Please note my following IM.
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Thank you for your lovely poem! I think I put my poem in your collection right, I hope so. Smoosh! I feel like a dried flower! But then again that's what anthology means!
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Dear Purrs,
I'm waiting to see the Title changed to read:
"On Immortality - Wyleian Sonnet CCXLII"
Then I can add it to the collection.
BTW: Anthology is not only a collection of flowers. It is also a collection of poems of literary merit.
Double smoosh to you! Love and hugs, XXX Hugh. -
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And here I thought that's what poems were! Roses, lilies, jasmine..........
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