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

[Barbara Hammel]

Amazingly, when I look at all the poems I've collected from other writers, 
at the top of my list are Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
and Edgar Guest.
My most favorite poem, though, is If by Rudyard Kipling.
Barbara




Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.--Robert Frost
-----Original Message----- 
From: Jacqueline Williams
Sent: Monday, April 15, 2013 1:00 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] In honor of Poetry month a dedication to Edna 
StlVincentMilay

Myrna,
It is still April, poetry month, so I hope I am not too late to respond to
both your poem and your suggestion for a favorite poem.
I am truly moved by your poem to Edna St. Vincent Millay. She is also one of
my favorites, to the point of having read her biography, and memorizing her
poem, "Pity Me Not." I will try to attach it, plus the one I wrote, "Don't
Pity Me" using the last words from her sonnet in my own. I re-titled it for
the purpose of the NFSPS annual contest, for an injured war vet.
Your poem is such a true reflection of the power of a poet to change lives
through words.
I would add Emilyy Dickenson and Billy Collins to my list of favorites.
You are a gifted poet and I always learn from reading your work and hearing
your comments.
I thank you.
Jackie

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of
KajunCutie926 at aol.com
Sent: Tuesday, April 02, 2013 1:33 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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