To Her Who Writes A Novel Poem by Nero CaroZiv

I know that everyone in the holy land nowadays is touring
And the fields with fragments of citreous and flowers are blooming
One may be intoxicated by these heavenly holy scents
In the land of milk and honey and the patina of the saints

Lately my interest in your on going Novel rose
I wonder about the inditement, the excitement and the prose
How many characters strong or meek do you have
Are they coward, blood thirsty, evil, bold, fearless or brave

Are you done portraiting the heroes, the villains and other characters
Do you make them labor hard in their act and toil
It is a laborious excruciating work without the miracle of oil
So hard and intrigue this task is, nevertheless you would not consider contractors

Don't let them roam idly, hardly working in their secured domicile
Don't let them sleep or delay; hastily they should bestow
Lines and phrases uttering loud and clear their lust, failures or an urge to kill
Stay on their top, spur them to rise to heights away from words low

Think of a tale in the middle night by a castle rock
Surrounded by secluded mysterious sturdy trees oak
And a lovely lady inside moated castle walls
As the starry night approaches the moon light fall

The night is chill; the forest foliage heavy to bare
The owl of the night moans in sharp bleak
There is not wind enough in the calm air
To blow away the ringlet from her cheek

Leave the reader to wonder what makes her in the woods so late
A far furlong from the secure castle gate?
You may hint though at the beginning of the play
That she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover who is far away

And while our female hero is all in dreams during the night
Of her own betrothed gallant knight
Let us draw the plot of his adventures to dare
All wrapt in fear, suspense and courage
As being encircled by enemies of foul plight and cunning urge
The reader withholding breath unable the scenery to bare


Write a Novel of great glory of that wondrous light
Its words and phrases throbbed in all encompassed around
And hide in its own brightness from the sight
Of all that look thereon with critic unsound
That underneath the readers feet are to be found
Roaring thunder and lightning and tempestuous fire
The instruments of your pen avenging raging sire