Some call us daft, poetic fools;
Monets who use
their words to paint—
inspired by
some inner voice
known to
stretch and bend the rules
in search of
perfect turn of phrase.
We don’t abide much with restraint—
we walk to different drummer’s beat;
Plath and Poe and Frost and Keats…
we read their poems to reacquaint,
then hold our own course once again.
Sometimes the words call in our sleep;
we wake and run to fast transpose
our thoughts, lest they should slip away...
left often feeling incomplete
with need to find that perfect
line.
How different then, this path we chose…
exposing all our truths and scars,
yet something from the depths takes hold—
an inner voice held in repose,
an entity that lives inside—
we must conclude now, insofar,
this choice to write was never ours…
© Ginny Brannan 2014
© Ginny Brannan 2014
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smiles...the choice not ours....a good close on this....i think there is a compulsion to share out scars and pains for sure...i had to look up plass as i thought you might have meant platt....but i found adrian as well...
ReplyDeleteActually meant Plath, a poet and writer who went to school in nearby Northampton. I am rather fond of her writing, which has a darker side to it, especially her villanelle: "Mad Girl's Love Song." Thanks for the catch, Brian. Too anxious to post, I obviously didn't proofread this enough!!
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