the first breath is poetry itself
born knowing how to feel wholly
hands unsteady but heart unyielding
his words spill without yet shaping
the craftsman does not come easy
he stumbles under the weight of making
his hands learn the language of precision
he breaks and builds the poet again
side by side they fight for space
the poet weaves chaos like morning light
the craftsman stitches structure from ash
one wild, one measured, both essential
together they create a truth heavy
both fire and the vessel to hold it
not one without the shadow of the other
the soul needs both to find itself
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: August 31st, 2025 07:45
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy, Kevin Hulme
Offline)
Comments2
Gray if I read this right I hear that there are two makers the inner poet and the outer craftsman and together they weave the poem. This so true the spirit of the poet providing the raw material and the craftsman's hands and experience shaping it. Simply lovely and a fave
Thanks Soren I appreciate your feedback
You are most welcome
Fine way of describing the process of Creating a poem. Good Write.
Thanks Kevin I appreciate your feedback
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.