The poetry student considers each word <br />his teachers had chosen to pass his way <br />The blending of styles, the touch of absurd. <br />Make him smile at an image or blink tears away <br /> <br />He feels himself drown in poetic perfection <br />in rough seas that threatened to overwhelm. <br />He struggles with words, he seeks for perception <br />adrift In the darkness, a corpse at the helm. <br /> <br />Each concept a shadow, a cruel aberration, <br />slides into each ear with the gentlest sigh. <br />To swell in his throat, smother all inspiration <br />He howls, so ashamed of myself am I. <br /> <br />The lessons are over, his marks are impressive. <br />At last, breathing deeply, he takes up his pen. <br />But all becomes fluid, like rain though a sieve. <br />And the sound of his watch resembles Big Ben. <br /> <br />Then quite without warning, she enters his mind, <br />her fingertips softly rest over his hand. <br />In the words she had used before passing away. <br />Make me proud son, just as we planned. <br /> <br />He forgets all the lessons, importance of style <br />his pen dances happily over each page. <br />Line chases line to enchant and beguile. <br />A young poet, steps up, to take centre stage.<br /><br />Ann Beard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-young-poet/
