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.

Alas,
Misery is human, you may rightly plead,
But if I wanted more, the news I’d read.
I know nostalgia is a powerful writing tool,
But use it well, don’t play the fool,
By sinking into depths of dreary,
And leaving blessed readers weary.

For when all is read and said and done,
We read for pleasure, a bit of Sun.
We trust our hearts to the writer’s sway,
Not just to grieve, but to play.
Surely one of their talent with wordy strings,
Can find inspiration in brighter things.

A turn of phrase, a curve of skin,
Can invigorate the muse within,
To explore new heights of word and craft,
A subtle change, a second draft,
Of synonyms and antonyms,
Of pious song and ribald hymns.

Of dipthongs and vowel sounds,
Of impatient lovers doing rounds,
Of dragon’s lairs and lands in drought,
And people simply sharing thoughts,
Of what they think and what they feel,
And what those intricate thoughts reveal,
About themselves, what makes them cry,
What makes them laugh, and when they die,
What memories will they have set free,
Amongst babbling brook and singing trees.

Take heed,
Even when we stare in the face of death,
And hold his hand and feel his breath,
The tale needn’t be one of woe and shame,
For it’s all a part of the human game.
One which played with spirit soared,
Is fittingly its own reward.

So if you choose a song to sing,
To put words down, let mind take wing,
Spare a thought for those who read,
Don’t let misery be your only creed.
Look beyond grief and nostalgia trips,
To silver clouds and golden quips.
Sing of adventure and epic tales,
Of talking cats and flying whales,
Of stunning sights and busy birds,
A subtle rhyme, a play of words.

— Samir

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