Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.” I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”
It is now the Autumn of 1974 and the beginning of my Middler year in Seminary. While adding Hebrew to my Greek and gaining additional grounding in biblical studies, theology, and church history, I managed also to find time for some walks in the woods before the onset of another winter and to experiment a bit with enjambment, the art of making your sentences end at different points in your lines of iambic pentameter to avoid predictable monotony and enhance the flow of your sonnet.
It was a deep, dark forest. No wind stirred
The woven branches there. No greater sound
In all that heavy stillness could be heard
Than worn-out oak leaves dropping to the ground.
The floor was covered with their rusty brown
As I, not unaffected by the gloom,
Came slowly shuffling through with eyes cast down.
The arching branches, closing in, assumed
The aspect of dim vaults in ancient tombs,
When, sudden, splashed amidst the brown, a small
Bright patch of gold I saw, the earth in bloom,
Where one lone maple’s let her leaf-cloak fall.
Tell me—was it leaves I saw that hour,
Or Zeus descending in a golden shower?
Remember: for more poetry like this, go to https://www.createspace.com/3562314 and order Stars Through the Clouds!
Donald T. Williams, PhD