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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