The Poet, like a warrior,
Guards against the erosion of years.
Capturing a moment with sweet rhyme or flowing verse,
A perverse need to imprison Time.
The Poet’s curse,
To bleed thought and feeling without end or send us
To the madness of mindless nothing.
Unfading and unchanging view
Sketched in the ink of immortality,
Cheating the finality of death and age.
The thought, the rhyme, like some prehistoric fern caught
Upon an amber page, remains for our understanding.
From our souls we endow
A Precious gift of then
Preserved for the endless now.
© Susan E. Birch
Excerpt from the book Ancient Whispers
About the Author
When Susan was eleven years old a teacher, knowing her love of Literature and History, gave her a copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare and a poetry anthology both of which changed her life. When she opened the book of poetry it naturally fell open at a page on which was a poem called ‘The Cloths of Heaven’ by W.B. Yeats. She read it and was stunned as it was the first time words had actually drawn a picture in her mind. Later, reading the book of Shakespeare, she found Sonnet 18’ and found the answer to why poets wrote poetry. From then on she was an avid reader of poetry and fell in love with the classical poets.
Visit Susan’s Author Page At: www.ctupublishinggroup.com/susan-e.-birch-.html