of Poetic Justice.

July 10, 2010

If aught of oaten stop, or past’ral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs and dying gales,
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun….AHRRRRG!!! STOP STOP PLEASE I BEG YOU!!!
No.
Imagine something. Something that for you, largely because the rest of Mankind will appreciate it, can make you feel like a blathering idiot. Something you just didn’t get.
Then,
imagine that it was an extension of something you held in such high esteem and reverence, but still just could not grasp it.
Imagine that it had the power to change the lives and perceptions of mere twelve year olds, the World over.
Not you though. You don’t get it.
That is poetry, for me.
Oh, I’ve tried. How I’ve tried. Even tutored, by friends and renown Poets. All eventually looking aghast and astonished, even uncomfortable, as one might regard a simpleton.
Words built me. Words have seen me through my worst of trials. Through loneliness and despair. Of deeds and triumphs, words have been my atlas.
That poetry, the art of word, escapes me, is one of my life’s great failings.

The Sun Bursts Thought.

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