There seems to be
more poetry
written in the winter.
Poets have
better things to do
in the summer.
We like the warm evenings,
drinking beer, smoking cigars,
talking about poetic things,
thus summers do not lend
themselves well to writing,
so we save it all for winter and fall.
Consequently, our writings
tend to be more melancholy,
more depressed in nature,
*O my mistress
how I long for your touch,*
he scribbles on his pad,
*let me feel thy supple *******
and hold thee tenderely
in my loving arms.
Let me hear thy whisper
taste thy gentle lips, and sense
the warmth of thy smile.*
See, the cold weather poets
tend to be the weakest of poets.
Poetry takes discipline.
The poet must learn
to sit in his dark, dusty corner
even on the best gardening days,
even when the birds are chirping
and the sun is out,
even when the breeze is perfect
because the poet must learn
to write for himself,
not only for his winter readership.
He must take his pen into the fields,
must count the snapdragons
and wild daisies.
Like mother, he must learn
the simple act of trusting inspiration,
not as a ***** but as a lover
who in return for faithfulness gives,
in return for kindness smiles,
and in return for loyalty loves.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 11:38 PM UTC
There seems to be
more poetry
written in the winter.
Poets have
better things to do
in the summer.
We like the warm evenings,
drinking beer, smoking cigars,
talking about poetic things,
thus summers do not lend
themselves well to writing,
so we save it all for winter and fall.
Consequently, our writings
tend to be more melancholy,
more depressed in nature,
*O my mistress
how I long for your touch,*
he scribbles on his pad,
*let me feel thy supple *******
and hold thee tenderely
in my loving arms.
Let me hear thy whisper
taste thy gentle lips, and sense
the warmth of thy smile.*
See, the cold weather poets
tend to be the weakest of poets.
Poetry takes discipline.
The poet must learn
to sit in his dark, dusty corner
even on the best gardening days,
even when the birds are chirping
and the sun is out,
even when the breeze is perfect
because the poet must learn
to write for himself,
not only for his winter readership.
He must take his pen into the fields,
must count the snapdragons
and wild daisies.
Like mother, he must learn
the simple act of trusting inspiration,
not as a ***** but as a lover
who in return for faithfulness gives,
in return for kindness smiles,
and in return for loyalty loves.
