Sunday, January 16, 2011


So many of us write in minor leagues—
We’re less than Beethovens, and more like Griegs.
We’re learnéd and adept in mastery
Of form, but something short of sorcery,
That magic only genius can attain,
Without which our best efforts rank as plain—
Amusing maybe, quite agreeable
Perhaps, but not dynamic, wonderful,
Or soul expanding in their heavenly reach,
Lacking what’s found in quintessential speech.
The highest modes of poetry transcend
Mere mortal breath and seem to comprehend
A spirit of a greater magnitude
That makes a song a holy interlude.