You, Poet

The prince raised his finger
And pointed.
“You, poet!
Write me a poem!”
So the poet bowed his head,
And obliged to do so.
He crafted and weaved
His language.
He spun magic of gardens and forests
Suns and moons,
Stars and bright city lights.
Of heated dancing,
In summer nights,
Of the ocean,
Of God,
Of love.
he painted a scene in the air
Of brilliance
And colours never before seen.

He presented his gift.
But the king tapped his foot.
“This will not do;
I asked you to write me a poem
So write a poem about me!”
He pointed his finger
And sent him away,
So the poet obliged to do so.
He bowed his head,
And worked without rest.
He created an epic ballad,
A mastery,
A song,
He moved the words with his hands
As gentle as a shepherd.
The story was of a wasp,
His journeys and triumphs,
His greatness, cruelty,
And a single two lines
Told of his songbird,
The one he killed.
It was a feast of glorious verse.

He presneted his gift.
But the old man tapped his foot.
“This will not do;
I commanded for a great poem,
A poem about me.
This is a faerie story;
Some piffle about a puny insect,
And a bird.”
And he pointed his finger.

“And least you noticed the bird,”
said the poet,
Shaking his head.
And it was promptly cut off.

November ’04


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This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x

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All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

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