Along my pilgrim way to Poetry
a random word or thought of butterfly
proportions so commends itself that I
explore its every possibility --
- its rhymes, alliterations, and allusions,
its images (for instance, wings), the sense
of something stirring.
As a consequence,
false starts abound, but point to no conclusions,
nor any middle. Just loose ends of things
to fiddle with.
Meanwhile, the butterfly,
restored to randomness, moves on to try
a more congenial clime
(so much for wings).
But carry on, brave pilgrim. When the curse
is lifted, a rare poem may emerge,
a masterpiece whose grace and wisdom verge
on genius.
Or it may be just a verse.
|
Author Notes
I truly never thought about this before. I surprised myself when I discovered how I obsess about rhyme (not half rhyme, not eye rhyme, but rhyme rhyme - the real McCoy) and meter, counting out the iambs on my fingers and trying very hard not to behead my lines. It takes forever, but I love, love, love it. My thanks to whoever thought of this contest.
|
|