As the Oyster Forms the Pearl
As the oyster forms the pearl,
So the poet pens the verse
As balm for the current ache
Born out of the ancient curse.
As the oyster feels compelled
To shellac the sandy grain,
So the poet feels the urge
To transmogrify the pain.
So the pearl grows rich and round
As its luster covers the sand.
So the verse unseen takes form
In its way, designed unplanned.
Sad the pearl that lies unseen
In the depths of the murky sea.
Sad the verse that dies unheard
In the heart clandestinely.
So the diver frees the pearl,
Breaks the stony shell apart.
So the poet frees the verse
Ripped out of his broken heart.
What could be more appropriate for Poetry Month than a poem about writing poetry?
Just this morning I reread Robert Frost’s “Mowing,” which I believe to be one of his sneaky poems that seems, on the surface, seems to be a simple description of the everyday task of a farmer, but on another level is an exploration of writing poems.
Frost is subtle, but I think I can make out him saying that for him poetry is not handed to him in dreams by fairies or elves. It’s hard work.
I almost see his rows of mown grass as lines of poetry left for others to figure out, “leaving hay to make.”
My little poem is not so subtle.