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Poetry is a Hard Profession

Poetry is a Hard Profession

As I go through poetic life
I have some rules of thumb.
You must ignore the noise and strife
Even when they call you dumb.

Wipe the tears from off your eyes
And from your heart wipe, too.
Ignore all the lies and names,
And yes, you will get through.

If you are called to be a poet,
Then you know it is an Art
If other people don’t know it
Then you know it in your heart.

And if they start to laugh
When you wanted them to cry
That can be your Epitaph
In the Sweet Bye and Bye.

That you brought them Joy
If only for a Minute.
They can carve that on your Tomb
Before they put you in It.

And there it will be ever more
Upon that granite Stone.
Here lies a Poet you may abhor
He’s nothing now but Bone.

Poetry is hard to write
Not every one can do it.
But I can still sleep sound at Night
When people say I blew it.

Because I know Up in the Sky
When I can  meet John Keats
He’ll introduce me as a Poet
To people like  W.B. Yeats.

And when the Poets gather ‘round
To talk about their Rhyme schemes
In their Company I’ll be found
If only in my Dreams.

Poetry is a Hard Profession. It is not just the spelling, or the reading you have to do, it is sitting down and making all the words fit. I must have written a million poems in my life, but I threw them all away because nobody liked them. Well, those days are over! Here is my first new poem, and I’m not throwing this one away.

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  1. JBean
    March 13, 2010 at 1:20 pm

    The Balloon Of The Mind

    HANDS, do what you’re bid:
    Bring the balloon of the mind
    That bellies and drags in the wind
    Into its narrow shed.

    — William Butler Yeats

  2. March 13, 2010 at 3:38 pm

    That is so pretty. Thank you. I have never read that one. Here is the poem of his I like. I found it on the back of a record album:

    Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
    She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
    She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
    But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree.

    In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
    And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
    She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
    But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

    • JBean
      March 13, 2010 at 5:01 pm

      Ah, yes, the salley gardens. Yeats is a treasure, and being Irish, he can’t resist the lore of the Druids:

      The Blessed

      CUMHAL called out, bending his head,
      Till Dathi came and stood,
      With a blink in his eyes, at the cave mouth,
      Between the wind and the wood.
      And Cumhal said, bending his knees,
      ‘I have come by the windy way
      And learn to pray when you pray.
      ‘I can bring you salmon out of the streams
      And heron out of the skies.’
      But Dathi folded his hands and smiled
      With the secrets of God in his eyes.
      And Cumhal saw like a drifting smoke
      All manner of blessed souls,
      Women and children, young men with books,
      And old men with croziers and stoles,
      ‘Praise God and God’s Mother,’ Dathi said,
      ‘For God and God’s Mother have sent
      The blessedest souls that walk in the world
      To fill your heart with content.’
      ‘And which is the blessedest,’ Cumhal said,
      ‘Where all are comely and good?
      Is it these that with golden thuribles
      Are singing about the wood?’
      ‘My eyes are blinking,’ Dathi said
      ‘With the secrets of God half blind,
      But I can see where the wind goes
      And follow the way of the wind;
      ‘And blessedness goes where the wind goes,
      And when it is gone we are dead;
      I see the blessedest soul in the world
      And he nods a drunken head.
      ‘O blessedness comes in the night and the day
      And whither the wise heart knows;
      And one has seen in the redness of wine
      The Incorruptible Rose,
      ‘That drowsily drops faint leaves on him
      And the sweetness of desire,
      While time and the world are ebbing away
      In twilights of dew and of fire.’

      • March 13, 2010 at 6:51 pm

        That is very pretty. Have you seen what that Squeeky person said about my poetry? Its not that bad is it?

  3. March 13, 2010 at 7:36 pm

    If you are so good, maybe you should get your own website and write poems. They do too rhyme. Keets and Yeets.

  4. JBean
    March 13, 2010 at 9:06 pm

    Taitz’ reputation is not murdered — it lives on in the annals of internet insanity. It fuels the flames of literary and artistic sarcasm, and inspires the poesy of bards such as Charles.

    Long live the clueless Lady Liberty! Much fun is she to we! (That rhymes.)

  5. JBean
    March 14, 2010 at 10:46 am

    Who said I was a professional?

    I only do that sort of thing when I’m strapped for cash and I’ve run out of Kenyan Social Security cards with baby footprints to sell. I call them “KenSocFeetsy” cards. Branding is very important in this market.

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