Whatever guides a poet’s hand
evades simplicity – meat for one
could be a blandish pap when set
a-plate before another’s apathy.
Does rhyme and rhythm set in nests
of fervoured words rehearsed with
passionate release inspire – or just
belief that anyone can pen a verse?
Are accolades from wannabes
sufficient spurs to herd the terse
and tethered words you place
apace in serried ranks?
Or do you need to free the angst
that writhes within to breathe?
To write or suffocate would seem
such worthy praise for poetry.
When silence reigns and all is said
and done it matters not that
venal praise engenders words
where even egos are ashamed.
So claim your words endure and
praise yourself as poet if you need –
the day you die concedes with
grief as proof you were indeed.
26 June 2009, I. D. Carswell