Note to Readers: My historical fiction novel Prester John and the Brigand King is once again available to read in full. Just click on the novel's title in the "Full Series" menu on the sidebar.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

A Poem for the Times It's Hard to Write Poetry

I set to write a poem here,
To fill with measured, metered lines
The blank horizon of a page
That's unsubmissive to my mind.

I have no Muses to invoke
To aid me in this toilsome task,
To grant my pen effulgent wings,
Like Hermes' shoes, if I but ask.

The gods of old are silent now,
And truth be told, they never spoke;
The genius of the poet blind
Alone was needed to invoke.

He took his gift, God-given grace,
To speak, to write, in words like gold
That turned themselves to miracles
In hearing of those men of old.

Yet I've one Spirit to invoke,
Thrice-holy and immortal, He--
But does He deign to bless with grace
Such rank and dogg'rel lines as these?

No gift like Homer's bear I here,
But I've a blessing more than he:
I know my Muse, and He knows me,
In word and breath, eternally.

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