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Poet’s Poet

 


His eyes burn on my back,
hot breath in my ear.

Awakened by my pencil
scraping grey words on white
as I struggle with my thoughts,
he stands sentinel with all
the poet’s trickery and skill;
honed on childhood verse,
youth’s sonnets’ spicy lines
running on multifarious feet,
language for its own glorious sake,
fandango on white page.

Learned also from music
with which he struggled too –
accelerando, agitato,
pizzicato, fortissimo,
glissando falling blue –
all harmonised with the vigour
of being fresh and young
when there was plenty saying
but little to be said.

I do not struggle with rhyme,
alliteration, metre, assonance,
just bring my thoughts
and all my history;
he
whispers in my mind,
brings poetry to me.

 

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