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

[Myrna Badgerow]

Thank you Donna. This poem by Milay (read in high school) was the first poem that really got me hooked on poetry. It wasn't until I began writing seriously 13 years ago that I realized the impact it had on me. She opened my soul all those years and I owe her a thank you for many hours of reading pleasure since then. 

Myrna

Sent from my iPhone

On Apr 3, 2013, at 6:21 PM, "Donna Hill" <penatwork at epix.net> wrote:

> This is beautiful and exquisitely contemplative.
> Donna 
> 
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of
> KajunCutie926 at aol.com
> 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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