Although most of our weekend poem selections are chosen by happenstance, every now and then, recurring themes emerge. So, here’s a collection that will appeal to writers everywhere. There are poems here that talk about the ideal life of a writer, the power of the muse, the joys and sorrows of writing and so on.
Do share your own favorite poems that relate to writing, writers, a writer’s life as well.
She plans to be a writer one day and live in the City of Paris,
Where she will describe the sun as it rises over Buttes-Chaumont.
“Today the dawn began in small pieces, sharp wedges of light
Broke through the clouds.” She plans to write better than this
And is critic enough to know “sharp wedges” sound like cheese.
All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
as I wait for her whom no one can command.
Whatever I cherish most–youth, freedom, glory–
fades before her who bears the flute in her hand.
On the express train to Vienna
she writes in her diary
notes about Rome and Naples.
Ink marks like parthenogenetic aphids,
pages like blood smears
of homing pigeons.
Beatrix Potter, on the stout side, dressed
“in tweeds thick enough to stop a bullet”
woven from the wool of your own sheep,
looking back across those green fields in
your old age you said, If I had been
caught young enough I could have become
anything. I salute what you became
The people up and down the world that talk and laugh and cry,
They’re pleasant when you’re young and gay, and life is all to try,
But when your heart is tired and dumb, your soul has need of ease,
There’s none like the quiet folk who wait in libraries–
The counselors who never change, the friends who never go,
The old books, the dear books that understand and know!
In the month of National Novel Writing
I, beholding the summer dead before me,
Set my fingers to keyboard and tapped silent,
Gazing eagerly where, on my screen,
Lit as bright as a thousand candles,
Black letters crawled along like busy ants.
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
What is she writing? Watch her now,
How fast her fingers move!
How eagerly her youthful brow
Is bent in thought above!
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
She puts them quick aside,