A whittler once, I once produced
Those tiny woodland creatures,
From blocks of pine that I reduced,
I realized their features;
I carved a miniature from beech,
A lonely troll so little,
But now my figures are of speech-
It's poetry I whittle.
And just like back when I was green
And whittling was my passion,
It takes an instrument that's keen,
Exacting tools to fashion
A carving from a writer's block,
To form what's like a riddle,
Like locking chains from one wood stock-
It's poetry I whittle.
And like that old wood-carver's craft,
It takes a sharp precision,
It starts out with the roughest draft,
And ends in smooth revision;
I still define some face I saw
Deep in the heart-wood's middle,
And I refine what once was raw-
It's poetry I whittle.
There are no pine and cedar chips,
But I still hone and taper;
There's no blood on my fingertips,
But there's blood on the paper,
Along with stains of sweat and tears;
I still take pains and fiddle,
Like I did in my younger years-
It's poetry I whittle.
A contest entry
- Anything and everything by Minstrel-Morose.
1200 points, ended June 28, 47 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
-
I really like this
Never before have I read of poetry described this way. -
Awesome...
Great analogy expressed in a compelling narrative that enthrals throughout with great wordplay/choices/use...
Keep up the good work...
Well done!!!
-
excellent
Love this!!! It's Gold to me
Wishing you the best
until then
stay
liquid
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