[stylist] In honor of Poetry month a dedication to Edna Stl VincentMilay

[Lynda Lambert]

Thanks for posting this poem!
Words are so powerful -
I love how you used the words of ESVM as muse.
Really nice poem.

Lynda




----- Original Message ----- 
From: <KajunCutie926 at aol.com>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Tuesday, April 02, 2013 4:32 PM
Subject: [stylist] In honor of Poetry month a dedication to Edna Stl 
VincentMilay


> This piece written a few years ago is also attached in Rich Text Format...
> her poem "When The Years Grows Old" is one of my all time favorites.
>
> Master of the Art
> (in dedication to Edna St. Vincent Milay)
>
> 'And often when the  brown leaves
> Were brittle on the ground,
> And the wind in the  chimney
> Made a melancholy sound,'
> ....(excerpt from 'When The Year Grows  Old'
> by Edna St. Vincent Milay
>
> I pause in my reading, my  thoughts
> Lingering still on the verse,
> Catching my breath, feeling the  impact
> Of a poet's simple words.
> The textured leaves my fingers  brushed,
> In brittle waste they lay.
> The plaintive song of sighing  winds,
> Its melody softly plays.
> And I, so inspired by
> This poet's  brooding plight,
> Take up my pen, search my soul,
> And slowly begin to  write.
>
> 'Mere words that cling
> To breaths from poets'  thoughts,
> Lingering still in patient pause until
> The ink begins to fill a  silent quill.
> For such it is that the poet's choice
> To scribe is truly  naught.
> Words, you see, are the masters,
> The guiding strength of a poets'  mime,
> Their muses are lulled into poetic dance
> With strings of verse or  prose, perchance
> To breathe into life thoughts born of rhyme.
> Is the  poet's role one of service then
> To scribe for the true masters of the  art?
> Are the pieces scribed from his questing pen
> Their own to claim or  must they share in part?
> For is it not within words that a poem's life  begins
> Spilling from a poet's soul into his waiting heart?'
>
> With  trembling hand, I set down my pen
> And read my scribbled words,
> A meager  dedication, I thought,
> To a poet and her inspiring verse.
> Absorbed am I in  my musings
> But again for a second brief,
> I listen to wind's plaintive  call,
> Feel each brittle leaf.
> That these mere words
> Could wield such  power
> To touch this reader's heart,
> Is a tribute to the poet's craft,
> A  true master of the art.
>
>


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