Poetry and the Poet
In a poem a river writes its story
birds scribble sky-pinned verse
fireflies enlighten and gardens—
those basking bards—turn sunshine
into rooted odes. Alas, the poet—
pen-bearing Sisyphus— bemoans
her lack of muse, climbs—but why?
The finding lies at fingers’ tips.
18 thoughts on "Poetry and the Poet"
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Yes! Sometimes the trick is just to start moving the pen…
This one hits home: How can I write if I have nothing to say?
Well said, and thank you, Nancy.
Wonderfully written!
“pen-bearing Sisyphus” – I can’t stop marveling (and laughing) at this! Exactly right, Nancy! Love this poem!
“In a poem a river writes its story.” Love this.
Nancy, the title invites me on a lyrical journey of wonder, culminating with: “The finding lies at fingers’ tips.” Thank you
Shew!x5 “In a poem a river writes its story”
Nancy, the first line in your poem is both poetic and powerful!
You have captured the art of writing so beautifully here…and the ending is wonderful: “The finding lies at fingers’ tips.” Not only true but said so well!
Oh, this hit home! Yes, tue process can be quite the uphill experience. Thank you for crafting and sharing this so beautifully with us.
Oh my gosh, this aches in the best way!! I love the casting of fireflies as basking bards!
Touché! Well crafted!
That first line, Nancy! I want to steal it.
Gorgeous! From the river (perfect—it writes its own life!) to the birds scribbling and the gardens, all the way to Sisyphus where you capture that agonizing feeling poets often have when the muse isn’t apparent. But yours certainly was with you today!
What is best of all things is when the poet is the poem, dressed in words…
I admire your ability to distill the profound. Great work!
Nice description here–love sky-pinned verse! Also very tight.
You had me with the first image. And the rest doesn’t disappoint. Every word works for you here.