It's a touch more difficult when you
know your work is going to be scrutinized and compared to others.
To pick a poet, I'd want someone who was harder on himself that on anyone else.
.
The Wordwright
“A natural at rhyming,” they said with quiet awe,
As if the effort of the work was just a lucky draw.
The poet grimly sets to task and nails the fabric down.
He stretches it to smooth it; portrays a bit of frown.
The subject matter fights him. He struggles on despite,
And witnesses remark there seems no effort in this wright.
While storms torment his vision, and tempests on him pour,
He delicately sets a bit of shell upon the shore.
The setting must be balanced. He knows it must be so,
But others only notice as the vistas slowly grow.
His struggle is exhausting, and soon to bed must he,
But not before he finishes his latest travesty.
So tempted to destroy it, his stare a rueful stance,
He shrugs and turns away from it without a backward glance.
“Another masterpiece,” they cry, and celebrate each rhyme,
And tearfully, he vows that he will do it right next time.
NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . . . October 25, 2004