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.
 

"Poet's incantation: see chapter four ... "