The Poet in a Room
By John Herlihy

Born of an idea that at first has no words.
Images soon appear that flit around like birds.
Flimsy and feverish, they have no clear shape,
The poet has no idea what he is about to make.
He takes a deep breath with the idea in his hands,
Then blows air into the wind who understands.

The poem seems ahead of him, always out of reach;
He gazes into his heart, deeper emotions to beseech.
I am not sure I can do this, he complains to himself;
I can do this he thinks unconvinced, like a shy elf.
I have been sitting around idly like an empty sack;
I hear a whisper, see a line, then my mind goes black.

Finally, the tentative whisper becomes a fervid hush;
The graying face now takes on the color of crimson blush.
The wave is cresting, the warp and woof touches light;
The tapestry of verses contain all the mystery of the night.
Now it seems as though the poetic words will not stop;
The flow is relentless, pure, as if from heaven they drop.

The poem now lies down on the page, what a lovely sight;
It contains all the originality that one finds in first light.
The words finally come together to shimmer on the page;
They breathe their own life and have the wisdom of a sage.
The poem now gives of itself although it may never be heard;
Created by the poet in a room while outside the birds stirred.