[stylist] In honor of Poetry month a dedication to Edna Stl VincentMilay
Donna Hill
penatwork at epix.net
Wed Apr 3 23:21:10 UTC 2013
This is beautiful and exquisitely contemplative.
Donna
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From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of
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Sent: Tuesday, April 02, 2013 4:33 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
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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