Author: Myrna

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.