- Non-Erotic Poetry
- But Then You Came
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-A Poem for my Editor.
Only here on this site could that title be interpreted in an entirely different way to the one I intended
Mostly I feel like writing is about the grunt work
like pushing an unwieldy piece of furniture
up a fearsome, unyielding mountain.
Until my fingers are aching
And my brain is ready to check out for the week.
Here in the relentless turmoil of my emotions
On the fruitless plains of my psyche I dwell.
Reaching out for the ever elusive analogy,
the abstract articulation,
that delightful thing that they call Eloquence.
But then you came,
And I bared my soul to you
You held it in your hands like a tiny insignificant flame
And into it, you breathed life.
You retrieved my ramshackle tales from the depths of tedium.
Written in a language that I do not yet fully know how to speak.
You saw potential, and you saw light.
You saw the thing that I was trying to say
and you helped me to say it. Only better.
So here is my acknowledgement, my gift to you.
You have turned the mediocrity of my words into prose,
you have helped me weave the rich tapestries I needed to clothe my stories.
You have made them shine.
- COMMENTS
Anonymousover 8 years agoThose first stanzas gave me feel-good goose bumps. Wow.
Evebroughtanax
legerdemerover 8 years agoA good editor with a light touch and insight is priceless. I have had such a gifted editor and friend for my more recent poetry. I can't thank them enough, but I also write poems in thanks. ;)
Apple_of_Edenabout 9 years agokaraline,
What an absolutely excellent gift you have written and presented. I feel much the same way about the editor who has come into my life and my writing. Luckily for me, a new friend on lit was willing to share. Now, they both have become greatly appreciated for their friendship, wisdom, and encouragement. I may tell my editor to read your poem and know that I would have written something very similar. Thank you for sharing. Apple
Anonymousover 9 years agoIt made me think of the lovely dedication to Pound at the beginning of Eliot's Waste Land - 'Il miglior fabbro'. How very selfless to recognize the potentially transformative role of a good editor.
