Ike Witt Poem by Alan Bradbury

Ike Witt

Rating: 4.5


The Poet cast aside his pen; his paper flung away.
No more he swore to versify forever and a day.
His epic, wrought in toil and tears, consigned he to the flames;
His nom-de-plume fore'er denied a place among the Names.
Where now is inspiration rapt? Where now can thought take wing?
O Muse, where is thy victory? O Critic, where thy sting?

Saturday, April 25, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: humor,inspiration,writing
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
Written on losing a poetry contest I'd entered.
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Chinedu Dike 26 April 2015

Nice piece of poetry, well articulated and nicely penned with insight. A good poem indeed. Thanks for sharing. Please read my poem MANDELA - THE IMMORTAL ICON.

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Kelly Kurt 25 April 2015

Great poem, Alan. I loved it. (and could relate) : -) Thanks for sharing

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