A Poet's Hands

A poem about my love of poems.

At dawn's bright wake,

one sits silently,

serenely,

at the wooden desk

which formed the grounds

for the essentials of one's speech

recorded by virtue

of the pencil which brings

emotions to, and from, the one

with the hands of a minstrel.

In the room the soul resides,

it pours onto a page

the thoughts,

opinions,

desires,

hopes,

knowledge,

and love,

cherished by the hands of a creator.

Oh, the drudgery of the cynics,

whomever may it consist of,

that grate the drained and withered cultures

against the mind of their ownership,

whilst drowning in their river of battles

fortold by the hands of the time-bearer.

Even thus, the soul who reveals goes on

reveling in the figurative,

yet sensitizing,

magic which does not go

by a single name or definition.

When one soul writes,

the others are sensing,

noticing,

witnessing,

another of their kin.

Another with the hands of a lover.

Reviews

[Bhuyanshi Talukdar]

Your poem captures the beauty and power of writing, and the way that it can connect us to ourselves and to others. The way that you describe the act of writing as a form of creation is particularly striking, and I was moved by the way that you describe the way that our souls pour onto the page when we write. The contrast that you draw between the cynics and the creators is also very powerful, and it speaks to the idea that there is a deep divide between those who seek to destroy and those who seek to create. The final lines of the poem are particularly beautiful, as they suggest that when we write, we are not alone, but are connected to a community of other writers who share our passion and our love for the written word.

[coagulatedfire]

Wow. WOW. wow. You did so good here. Very cool.

I don't always talk so school yard 2005, I just did that here. My guard is down, I just want you to know that this writing was really good.

[Red Brick Keshner]

A poem can at times be like ourselves in another dimension or parallel universe, better even than a looking glass mirror in that it is more than a mere reflection from available light and angle of reflection but appears to take a life all of its own. And yet it needs to be birthed by us and through our life experience. Thanks for sharing.

[Keagen Cole]

Anytime, RBK. :3

[Keith Jeffries]

Your writing is both interesting and attractive.

[Keagen Cole]

Thanks. ^w^

[jacob erin-cilberto]

yes, we caress our poems into being...like caressing a lover. This is really good...we are creators of our own world of verse, we do reveal, and we are kindred spirits.

[Keagen Cole]

Thanks, J. :3
I kinda came up with the poem while re-reading my favorite poem: "Ozymandias", by Percy Bysshe Shelly.