-- Suffering --

By John Herlihy

The modern poet never minces words,

His listens carefully to the echo of birds.

What does he do but capture a moment,

There, in situ, as if fighting an opponent.

In my youth I never wrote a poetic word,

In a writing competition, I came in third.

I imagined myself a writer in my dreams,

But I never thought to be a poet it seems.

Truth to tell, I couldn’t stomach arcane poets,

Any more than I did admire the Greek Stoics.

In-depth essays eventually became my forte,

Giving me room to explore what I had to say.

How could I go about writing of heart-break,

My heart was never broken for heaven sake.

How could I truly portray the depths of sorrow,

If I only took such feelings away on borrow?

Nature stole my heart with its beauty and grace,

But as for romantic poets, I couldn’t keep apace.

Sun awakened the dawn, the stars filled the night,

It all spilled into my heart, but what could I write.

Until the day arrived that I had never reckoned,

Some inner voice sounded that clearly beckoned.

I took my pen in hand after a lifetime of years,

Words poured forth, each one of them with tears.

Everything I saw now took on the poetic touch,

When moon and stars appeared, I never felt so much.

Ladybugs flew homeward, butterflies sipped nectar,

My imaginative mind was filled with a ghostly specter.

Idle musings now fill empty hours of my old age,

With pen in hand, I scribble poems like a wise sage.

A question remained how I found this ancient power,

Always filled to the brim at the night’s mystical hour.

Finally, I decided to put this question to the test,

To ask the poetic Muse so that I could finally rest.

How these verse rhythms come as the hymn of bees,

How my thoughts, like butterflies, arrive with ease.

“Your Majesty,” I intoned, as she appeared in the mist,

The magical hour had arrived, but would never persist.

“From whence come these imaginings, wishing to be told,

How do I find the right words; what makes me so bold?”

The aged Muse gazed upon me with benevolent eyes,

Her words entered my heart with the force of ancient cries.

“The music of your life now played with depths of feeling,

Only now do you understand the urge of poetic meaning.”

The Muse lingered a moment before fading into the mist,

Touched by her wand of wisdom to leave me feeling blessed.

“Write of the human condition,” she echoed, “only you can tell.

Draw upon depths of suffering, found in your deepest well.”

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(c) John Herlihy 8 October 2018