Right down within the depths of me <br />there lies a vein of poetry <br />Wherein I find when I have leisure <br /> words which are my greatest treasure. <br /> <br />Words with which I can fashion verse <br /> some silken smooth and some perverse <br />Each one is chosen carefully <br /> then put together artfully. <br /> <br />I find them raw and unrefined <br /> then with the power of my mind. <br />I create intricate designs <br />of words that some idea defines. <br /> <br />A poet is an artisan <br /> who follows carefully a plan <br />that’s handed down from days of yore. <br />Which many men have used before. <br /> <br />To create formal poetry <br /> to demonstrate their artistry. <br />Perchance I sometimes get it right <br /> in verses which I choose to write. <br /> <br />I can imagine nothing worse <br />for those of us who write in verse <br />Than poetry which does not scan <br /> and lacks all structure, has no plan. <br /> <br />Just words which incoherently <br /> are juxtaposed haphazardly <br />. Which critics now suppose to be <br /> the future form of poetry. <br /> <br />22-Feb-08<br /><br />ivor or ivor.e hogg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/but-is-it/
