I have long been tormented by poetry,
tortured by lines calling me from their depths,
in early hours before dawn.
When even my house was asleep.
To rise and sit at a wooden desk with pen in front of paper
and write all alliteration that comes to mind.
Fec !
It is enough to drive drinkers mad,
such prattle, poetry indeed.
©MRL Dec 2016
When the muse calls. The muse calls!
ReplyDeleteIt does so at times when one would like the mind to be quiet :-)
DeleteAnd what Muse are you going to blame for this insulting deed??
ReplyDeletePoetry is what poetry does, and the messenger is not always in charge of the words. I think this was a very charming piece, Melvyn!!
I can but only blame my own mind... it being in a satirical state
Deleteat the time :-)
"Not for the proud man apart from the raging moon I write on the spendthrift pages..."--Dylan Thomas. Dirty dirty Dylan won't leave us alone. Which begs the question: who was goading him? Poetry is more than memory. It is the electric charge in a circuit of life. Write. Write.
ReplyDeleteYes. I think, think.
Delete