Poetry: I must write - by Garry Spotts

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by Garry Spotts

Created on: August 08, 2009

Monologue xii: A Self Poetrait

Preface:

Thieves...
Of peace and gift of pain;
What great rejecting hand sweeps
From us the sense of value we
cherish. So fragile the image
hugged to our breast.

Who makes the poet?

The razing pen, adoring fan?

Upbraiding critic or clapping hand?

Who makes the poet sing
line for line their soul to ignoring wind
and like bad dreams come again and
again?

What makes the poet ride
the waves of curious thought and
secret sin, loves lost, dreams deferred...?

Is it a vision...

a vision poetic, or
is it a vision so pathetic
that causes mind to wind
and moves hand to scribe?

On tablets of flesh we
heave and foam our hearts and
spend our souls, for write we must
or die!

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