by Bobbi Ann Duffy
Rated "G" by the Author.
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My Destiny: What being a Poet Means to Me
I set my coke on the desk next to my paperless orange clip board.
I learned a long time ago that transposing words
from paper to screen is not one of my talents.
When I look down at the screen I am surprised to see words
I did not write with my conscious mind, Rhymes and meter,
phrasing thoughts that I didn’t think reaching out to my soul.
Whose words are these?
Some stranger has entered my mind
prompting the strings of letters that are touching my heart.
Who is this unknown benefactor
who understands my inner most feelings and thoughts?
Who uses me to display
my fears, joys, pleasures, and distastes for all to see?
Who produces such beauty
by delving into my very being to share me with others?
Who is this unnamed muse who whispers directions
that my fingers obey without question?
Is it God who uses me as an instrument
to reach a single reader giving them hope, love and instruction?
Or a long dead soul reaching out from the other side of life’s veil
to speak to loved ones left behind?
Are these words I write memories, inspiration, or imagination?
As I ponder, slowly the realization comes to me;
my work is a combination of all these things.
I am never without some combination
of my God, my muse
and long dead souls to guide my thoughts.
From deep inside where I hide myself,
Memories, inspiration and imagination rise
to produce the songs without music I write.
Songs made of words that uplift, give hope,
and make life bearable.
It my privilege to use my pen,
and my words to show others what they need to see,
to teach them to hear the music of our language.
That will lead them to find
their own music deep inside themselves.
This is my destiny.
I am a POET.
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|Reviewed by Regis Auffray
|Positive, self-expressive, and insistent; your thoughts are inspiring and encouraging, Bobbi Ann. Welcome back (even as I know this poem was written quite some time ago but I got your message). Love, peace, and best wishes to you,
|Reviewed by Georg Mateos
|"...did not write with my conscious mind..." if you did, Erato would have felt insulted, because being a poet is like being a hole in the ground letting the cold water flow to them that are thirst...
|Reviewed by TONY NERONE
|And a damn great one too. As you know Bobbi I have no formal education, because of that I have had to read other poets masterpieces. And honestly Bobbi YOU have been one great teacher for me.
GOD BLESS YOU