Something profound by Faymarie Morris
Sometimes a poem just seems to arrive.
Sometimes it gets dragged from your psyche
and chews at your insides, driving you mad,
like a bad dream that visits nightly.
Why do I put myself through this torment
sitting for hours in front of a screen,
struggling to find a more meaningful word?
Something profound, instead of just green.
How did they manage, those poets of old
with quill pens and rough sheets of paper,
scratching away in some garret or shed,
to create something worthy of favour?
I suppose that was all they had to do,
those offspring of the social elite.
But their talent, foresight and use of words,
were absolute, and still hard to beat.
So, why do I write the same kind of stuff
that I store in the depths of my brain,
then churn out in similar ways, each time?
The same format, again and again.
Will I ever write something of value,
something forceful or significant?
A sonnet, haiku or lyrical ode
that a reader might find eloquent?
But I’m not the one writing the poem,
it’s the poem that’s writing itself.
It waits in the darkness beside my desk,
a fanciful muse or irksome elf.
And whenever I feel like giving up,
because nothing I write seems to fit,
I remember something Tennyson wrote
about poets needing a fruitful wit…
By Faymarie Morris