What? Do I write Poetry?
Why do I write poetry,
is it foolishness, or just coquetry?
it could be case of bad oratory,
perhaps a mind body asymmetry?
Yet I compose in verse
sometimes turgid, sometimes terse,
words often go inverse,
to my thinking, what a curse.
Poetry to me is a simple art
though not for the intellectual upstart
its different, and stands apart
from the wordy glib and smart.
Poetry puts words in emphatic motion,
gives a vent for our pent up emotion,
critically cuts through all confusion,
all said, its a verbal magic potion.
In measured metres our words go,
broken lines have an unstructured flow,
free flowing can also elegantly grow,
into poetry, I would have you know.
A poet has an undisguisedly great time,
tying words into an attractive rhyme,
stringing them into their glorious prime,
turning the mundane into the sublime.
My thoughts as they in my mind flow,
sometimes random, linear or slow,
I place them in a symmetrical row,
and watch a verse slowly grow.
A poet has a special dispensation,
for exceptional poignant formulation,
with powers of vibrant visualisation,
and the magic of gentle persuasion.
A bouquet of a very special skill,
exceptional abilities to verbally distill,
a gift to conjure or sometimes better still,
string thoughts into words at will.
And yet nothing is easier, and it is a fact,
that poetry doesn’t need much tact,
not even much talent in fact,
but a capacity to emote and react.
Therefore a poet can be found everywhere,
and friends please all be well aware,
a poet has not much to prepare,
its just an ability to feel and care.
So ending at the point where I did start,
also dwelling now on the best part,
poetry is simply stated, an art,
written by those who are… smart.