A Young Poet Poem by Ann Beard

The poetry student considers each word
his teachers had chosen to pass his way
The blending of styles, the touch of absurd.
Make him smile at an image or blink tears away

He feels himself drown in poetic perfection
in rough seas that threatened to overwhelm.
He struggles with words, he seeks for perception
adrift In the darkness, a corpse at the helm.

Each concept a shadow, a cruel aberration,
slides into each ear with the gentlest sigh.
To swell in his throat, smother all inspiration
He howls, so ashamed of myself am I.

The lessons are over, his marks are impressive.
At last, breathing deeply, he takes up his pen.
But all becomes fluid, like rain though a sieve.
And the sound of his watch resembles Big Ben.

Then quite without warning, she enters his mind,
her fingertips softly rest over his hand.
In the words she had used before passing away.
Make me proud son, just as we planned.

He forgets all the lessons, importance of style
his pen dances happily over each page.
Line chases line to enchant and beguile.
A young poet, steps up, to take centre stage.