}
Writing Poetry Without Bloodletting
Nostalgia and grief seem to fuel the pensive poet’s pen,
Without them the bards would not know where to begin,
On their journeys through life and soul and deed,
All springing from the one eternal human need,
A yearning for meaning, the hope that it will come,
The fear that it has slipped past in years long done.
Thus they wander on their unending refrain,
To nostalgia, and back again.
They sing of many lovers lost,
Of children dead, of chilling frost,
Of personal angst so meek and gory,
A furtive glance, a touching story.
