By Bicpen
A poets life full of joy and sorrow,
First the pain heartfelt and long; then the gain.
Starting with poet's deadline tomorrow,
Our story begins and all unravels.
~.~
His idea strikes, will it work or not,
Best be putting pen to paper, but wait,
What are syllables and metre? He's fraught.
What about vowels, consonants and things?
~.~
Tools for novice and pro poet may use;
He picks his form and structure, now the view
Or picture he wishes to paint. His muse
Now lets him write, or her, his lines begin.
~.~
Such, beholds he the magic rhyme giving time,
This belongs in the line. A choice and voice.
I will build a stanza, I hear three fine,
Normative, quantative, variable.
~.~
But what about my syllables in feet;
What is measure? A scansion debate.
Many to choose, how they must keep the beat;
Where's the secret in those soft's or stresses ... ?
| Author Notes | This is the first poem in a series that tells a story. |
By Bicpen
By rights I shall not write,
If my syl-la-bles shine not bright."
Cripes!" They cried, "Are you for real,
Pens are for writing you mad machine!"
Employ the tools, listen to the sound the words let out;
Now, no more doubt, let us shout!"
| Author Notes | This the poet`s cry...and after we return to the story. |
By Bicpen
Poet's paper pristine and white gleams true;
Fumbling an old pen he grasps. Now begins
his masterpiece, a problem occurs; new
Sheet addressed and his pen begins again.
~.~
Somehow, he cannot write. All is called short,
Paper still blank not even a full stop.
Either he is hot or cold; now he's taught,
Why will his page not shine nor tell a rhyme?
~.~
Must I use a chalk or slate to relate;
Mystery, must a poet bathe in gin.
My sheet whistles like a grave sweet, a mate
Of desolate winds, yes, an orphan's grave.
~.~
An incantation's call poet's release,
The "muse" awakes and stirs his tortured mind.
With poets wry always famine or feast;
Hum soft, slowly repeat, then bathe in gin.
~.~
Persevere I will for my laurel rings,
For you and I will become poets strong.
Inside, words, metaphors, pictures and things;
You and I see through poet's paper's eye.
| Author Notes | Next, the incantation. |
By Bicpen
Lonely laurel sing
poet write
mass words
like love enshrined
~.~
Clever pen's demand
words surrounding
orphan's grave
every thought
shallow or deep
~.~
Counted by throngs
solid stone etches
chiselled golden rhyme
... or ....
cast rich dye
words behold
my paper's eye
~.~
.... who
But ...
... you
And ...
I
.
| Author Notes | The paper and pen is a grave to some, rich giving's to others. |
By Bicpen
Muse's words worked a treat, paper hallowed;
Poet's mind exacerbated, words now flow.
Subject, human embrace true love fallow;
How about some adjectives, verbs, and nouns!
~.~
A question strikes, where's my punctuation?
Deepened knowledge, writing lessons follow;
Is this question mark or exclamation,
No publishing till I hit grade "A" plus?
~.~
He, through toil and tears still must persevere,
Through reams of paper, pens and thought's dark night.
Acknowledged friend criticises severe;
Rewrite, final copy, corrections clear.
~.~
His presented poem with colours bright,
Poet's last glance, now masterpiece revealed.
All present and correct to his delight;
Now, I shall see whom all the critics like.
~.~
Plummeting reviews, undesired effect;
Poet's heart sinks, morale grieved, badly hurt.
He draws a breath, made poor poem look a wreck;
Poet's poem stay's living in his hall.
| Author Notes | The poet`s education continues... |
By Bicpen
Lingering, desire's hope,
Motionless and quiet;
Never asleep but serving
On a heart's whim.
I love her, " ... or him !"
| Author Notes | The poet`s masterpiece. |
By Bicpen
Employ the tools and chorus strong will sing;
Each poem's work delivered masterpiece.
Make reading clear, gentle, no tortured ring;
Demented minds befriend a muse on lease.
~.~
All poet's writing long or short now shone;
His words tepid or cold, not loved, belong
In desert places. Poets being born;
Remember, poor language can become strong.
~.~
A coward never gains the poet's grade;
Prepare on site much study will inspire.
The gain for pain most published work gets paid;
When good goes wrong, become not proud, a liar.
~.~
Correct the mess; deliver guns for hire,
When best of work approved, then you're on fire.
| Author Notes | Please read the full story...(English sonnet) |
|
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