[stylist] Thank you Bridget dedication to Edna Stl

[KajunCutie926 at aol.com]

I feel the exactly the same way.  I have often said that we are the  
caretakers of words and they dictate where they go but we must take care on how  
freely we allow them to roam.. Thank you so much for your feedback.
Myrna
 
 
In a message dated 4/3/2013 3:47:00 P.M. Central Daylight Time,  
bpollpeter at hotmail.com writes:

I like  this poem because it speaks to my belief that words have power.
The written  word, if crafted carefully, can have great power and can
affect  many.

Bridgit
Message: 8
Date: Tue, 2 Apr 2013 16:32:39 -0400  (EDT)
From: KajunCutie926 at aol.com
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject:  [stylist] In honor of Poetry month a dedication to Edna Stl
Vincent    Milay
Message-ID:  <10682.56359e82.3e8c9a66 at aol.com>
Content-Type: text/plain;  charset="us-ascii"

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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