My muse is like a golden car as we traverse
the astral realms of poesy riding sunlit beams
We briefly pause, my view becomes immersed
In dreams aglow with starry lyric streams
We fly and reach the place of poetic fountains
Where Shelley, Byron, and Millay and Yeats
Begot their noble paeans and epic mountains
Beguiling all with magic verse and beats
The muse adjures our steeds within her fane
Amid roiling springs of thought we soar
Our chimeral horses near the gurge of fame
She points and says "anathema evermore"
While flying through the mental ether
We must decide on fame, on art, or neither
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Author:
George (My real name) (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 30th, 2016 05:51
- Comment from author about the poem: The word car as used here is meant in the sense of the old English definition. In other words any thing with wheels. There are other old English words used here without shame.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 45
Offline)
Comments2
Oh, my God!
This is the most amazing piece of poetry which I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing!
I am dead serious.
And yes, I'd like to think that I know a thing or two about good poetry.
Your conversational style outshines the fluidity of Robert Frost, and the profundity of your words rival that of Poe..
But, Oh! I cannot define your style by the excellence of others, for it surpasses them all.
I have no doubt that your are as unique and intelligent as the work which you have here displayed.
Thank you for the very kind words Severus. It heartens me to know you enjoyed this piece.
Please allow me to state that, if you have not yet heard the same from another,
You will go far.
Far, indeed. : )
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