'The Lot Of The Poet' Poem by Sophia White

The lot of the poet is no easy one.
Such burdens weigh the hands that wield the pen!
A poem cannot just get up and run,
A witty string of puns or pretty verse,
But must embody something wholly new
Which no ear has ever heard before.
The poet must see with a different view
Than hoi poloi or audience or critics.
He must not only find a lens unknown,
But create it and shape it with his words
Until it is perspective all his own,
And then – I fear his work’s not yet begun –
He must discover if his lens will work,
Whether it’s a telescope he’s made,
Or a microscope or just a glass,
He’s got to test it through the sun and shade
Be sure it isn’t flawed or loose in places,
Which, I fear, such things so often are.
And after endless hours spent fine-tuning,
With his finished product up to par
With utter originality of mind,
He must discover what he wants to see.
His travels may find him anywhere,
Peering for hours at the simplest of things,
To find out what his view will show him,
Something never viewed by man before.
This search for elucidation may indeed
Last the poet years and still years more,
Until at last, with certainly past all else,
He knows he’s found it, whatever it may be,
And he sits down in a daze of wordless wonder,
Picks up pen and paper silently,
And then, O reader, is his work begun.