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Silent Quill


a grated gate in midnight's light
once fell upon a sorry sight
as rain washed out the scarlet stain
the skies bowed down to hear the pain

a voice without a body heard
the sordid tale its waist did gird
one witness found, torn leaf by leaf
Creation's glory sank to grief

a tale no word was writ nor said
into the ground the silence bled
a soaked and orphaned quill remains
fraught with want of trilled refrains

a poet's tome thus lay ungathered
whispy strands of dreams untethered
if Heaven cried its tears that night
set up the quaich by candlelight


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Couldn't find that word anywhere. Maybe you meant [watch]? The rest of the poem sounds like some of the nights that I have sat up writing, and come up empty. Thank you for the incentive to keep going. maybe tonight will be the night that I finally write something worth posting! ~ Gee

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A two- ir three-handled cup, usually shallow. The use of this can extend to close fellowship, camaraderie, even communion between its partakers. That being said, would open up the rest of the poem :-)). This particular poem came to be as a result of a fellow poet and friend's demise by their own hand (several years ago now) which I have melded with the idea of the productive life of the poetic expression and patronage. I find it a superlative bonus that this poem has found its way to encouragement... as poets, we need to keep going. There is that forward momentum, however subtle, however fragile. Our poetry may fall upon deaf ears, calloused hearts or even sharp rebuke from scathing criticism... but in the end we have to remain faithful to the primal source that drives us to be scribes to our individual Muses. Please do, post again. Thanks for sharing with me your journey with this poem. CB

'Break, break break on thy cold grey stones, O Sea.'

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this is a sad tale of the poets cup leaking until empty. Each drip is another blow to the already dented vessel.

A journey of sorrow and one I thoroughly enjoyed - nice touch with the quaich.

Particularly liked:

a tale no word was writ nor said
into the ground the silence bled

Painfully beautiful,


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With all that I am and all that I could be, I walk this earth, yet nobody sees me.

I am continually amazed at how you just cut through the veil of words into the heart of the poem.
There doesn't seem to be any cryptic guise with you, not from my pen anyhows. There is beauty in pain as released from the artist's pen. Many thanks, and many pleasant returns, CB

'Break, break break on thy cold grey stones, O Sea.'

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"the skies bowed down to hear the pain" I live to read lines like that.


to be able to spout such lines every now and again! Cheers, CB

'Break, break break on thy cold grey stones, O Sea.'

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