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Array
(
[sid] => 182336
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Alter of Verse Asks Much
[time] => 2015-12-23 01:08:57
[hometext] => Good poetry takes time, not just OUR time, but precious time from our loves.
[bodytext] => Words are not coins to be purchased with ease of fingers grasping bottoms of pockets. One wouldn/'/t give a shilling- try to sell the word /'/silly/'/, or any word really, forlorn and singular heard. But, oh!, when one robs time from life to the climb, to lariat letters in paged corral; Oh my! Why, then thy primordial stirrings do seethe! words springs to knees, sentences breathe, to a letter painstakingly staged; now born they hold power, give birth to love/'/s flower to bloom or crush youngest or most aged of hearts; Yet, life being life, there/'/s always a price- poems steal time first as a start. . But to arrange from a word-pool most disarrayed, and massage into purpose one sees- this wording gift is not without cost-Oh! by no means is it free. Ticking and tocking, time preciously knocking, as life ever clicks to loves beat, this foreign bleat and strain deaf to the brain to busy fishing, this poet fisher endless casting for just the very right word. Thus time is sought, “Oh, woe is me!, I now see and know the price is paid for and bought, though not I to be; alas, only by thee, all for my heart to be heard. My dear, My dear, I love thee beyond as love has ne/'/er /'/fore in me stirred. Hours at times for one sentence sought rhyme, taxes not only poet but others. The child, a lover, Wife or Husband, all live on without their arranger; indeed, strains show our need, oft through smiles at our thin veiled wiles, the poet pleading to end one or start; words wrestling to poem, eager to show it, (and well both know it) the cost painful and not always worth this loss paid in chase of worded art. The iambic seeking, pentameter creeping fingers tap long in the night; loved ones slumber, alone and resigned (to many times), or not, as it may be; seclusion’s/'/ requirement, silent retirement, to our loved, selfish well we may seem; but sometimes the beauty, the tingling netting, nuance frail as gossamer sheen; it is then, it is when our symphony swells, soul sweeping all cost, dismissing all loss in attainment of poetic perfection/'/s dream. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 163 [topic] => 69 [informant] => Invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => poets )
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