Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:
(Poem #1032) Words
Out of us all That make rhymes Will you choose Sometimes - As the winds use A crack in a wall Or a drain, Their joy or their pain To whistle through - Choose me, You English words? I know you: You are light as dreams, Tough as oak, Precious as gold, As poppies and corn, Or an old cloak: Sweet as our birds To the ear, As the burnet rose In the heat Of Midsummer: Strange as the races Of dead and unborn: Strange and sweet Equally, And familiar, To the eye, As the dearest faces That a man knows, And as lost homes are: But though older far Than oldest yew, - As our hills are, old, - Worn new Again and again: Young as our streams After rain: And as dear As the earth which you prove That we love. Make me content With some sweetness From Wales Whose nightingales Have no wings, - From Wiltshire and Kent And Herefordshire, - And the villages there, - From the names, and the things No less. Let me sometimes dance With you, Or climb Or stand perchance In ecstasy, Fixed and free In a rhyme, As poets do.
I liked this poem because the image of a poet beseeching words to accept him, and using a poem as a medium to do so, appealed to me. I also liked the way he describes words in the second section of the poem. Zenobia.