What makes a poem what it is and recognised as such?
Is it announcing joy or bliss, as if these count so much?
Is it a sense of savoir faire, a touch of elegance,
A precious phrase beyond compare, of perfect eloquence?
Is it a theme based on a dream, a tall tale told one night,
Or edited to an extreme until it was just right?
Is it a few puns now and then or wordplay thought divine,
Or merely picking up a pen to write some Valentine?
Is it a form of prophecy before sad times must come,
Or subtle forms of mockery like limericks to some?
What makes a poem what it is with words meant to recite,
Is it by chance or hit and miss in what most poets write?
Is it some thoughts that must be shared, considered somewhat deep,
Or just expressing that we cared for friendships we must keep?
Is it to share our share of faith when Christmas makes us smile,
Or lessons helping us behave or overcome some trial?
Is it to show some happiness each time we fall in love,
Or to proclaim how God can bless with grace more than enough?
What makes a poem what it is, its rhythm or its rhyme?
My only answer, friends, is this: it has to be sublime!
Denis Martindale. May 2022.
The poem image is the Calibri font size 18
in bold and italic and the green text colour
for the poem to be clearly seen and recited.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem