Poem: The Art of Poetry

April 11, 2022

Collage by Exposure with images of castle by Waldkunst, fountain pen and paper by Bru-nO, and magical horse by Mysticsartdesign, all from Pixabay

Jaimin L. Symonds Patel reaches for words to create a colourful festival of the mind

Is the key to the beauty of words spoken,
In that their syllables ring true,
To tempt the ear so.
Although, any petty poem may have sounds that sing,
But that does not make it any more a song.

Maybe the words themselves,
So finely picked like fresh fruit,
Induce every fleeting image with potency,
Cause every mind that reads each splash of ink
To explode with coloured pigment,
Vigour to equal a festival.
Like a gallery without bricks, mortar, nails, or frames,
All that is left is a peacock with its feathers torn of any order.

Or are words just as those on great steeds,
Chasing the road signs to reach the safety
Of castle walls on the horizon.
But there is only dying haste in spoken sounds,
As all their effort is spent on touching those towering battlements,
Solid with form and weight,
All for nought, as perfection never reached taunts.

Yet those riders that take it upon themselves,
To find the perfect view of those gleaming-cut stones,
Watching them sparkle in the sun from far atop a high hill,
Surely they have found a better sight to see,
Than those who have somehow found a block to touch.

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