The Poem Poem by Neil Kennett

The Poem

Rating: 5.0


It starts
with a lump in the throat
or a scar on the heart,
Fading embers of beauty
in an unnoticed work of art.
It is
the knife-marks on the silver frame
and the pattern on the coat
of the richer man
who knows not the artist's name.
It gives
this everyday craftsman
a means beyond the end
so despite all obscurity
he's a proud man, a joyous friend.

On tea-stained paper
ripped and torn
in the corner of a grand hall
adorned, with cold paint on dry canvas
in an ocean of false light.
The poem lies
gracefully quiet
despite, the voices of the careless few
who took its melody from view.

Still in those who hear its song
it holds and haunts the mind
and in an unknown word or two
it mocks and taunts mankind.
But as calm and content,
so strong, God-sent.
It has known the voices, known them all,
known the lonely clouds and dying fall.
And now the illustrious mystery
makes its euphoric ascent.

From the page, to the eyes, to the mind.
And, if read a thousand times,
then read a thousand ways,
so in the mind, the simple rhymes,
live on a thousand days.

Now the poet is gone
but the scars remain,
On the heart, in the coat,
in the light and the frame
As it ends they fall
with the silent truth that,
The poem will outlive us all.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: poetry
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Eugene Levich 02 September 2014

A lovely poem- kudos to the author! But correct repetition, line 8.

0 0 Reply
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success