Not a Poet

Mystery, allegory, love, and tragedy –all such words that swirl around the essence of a poet, like the dark mist he describes in his lines of rhyme. With such skill he plies his trade, molding, shaping, forming words and lines. A beautiful masterpiece he fashions –such lovely words to read and hear, rolling off your tongue in melody. Even the word poetry is designed to touch the soul, to allure its readers further and further along a symbolic journey.

While my heart aspires to such greatness, my pen does not comply. A poorly rhymed, lurching meter of great intentions and miserable conclusions is all that I can drag from poetry. No, my role is not as a composer of poetry, but an admirer of it. I can smile at the rolling meter and the clever weave of the words as they narrate. With these few, well-chosen words I am drawn from this world to another. An alluring scene can play before me, such as that of my favorite poem, “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noys:

 “The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

Riding—riding—”

And while, I fear, a poet I’ll never be, a lover of poetry is something I can be.

*Click here to read the rest of “The Highwayman”.

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