Verses about verse

Стихами о стихах
Verses About Verses

I’ll tell you now in verses about verse,
Avoiding prose and words of little meaning,
Of all that lives in dreams, for better or worse—
For words unchained from rhyme seem disappearing.
I do not choose them; they arrive unfleeting,
As timelessness awakens quiet fear,
And pairs of words, their destined forms completing,
Are born in worlds beyond this atmosphere.

All that is rhymed holds value in the soul—
A soul speaks not in speech but sings instead,
Accompanied by strings that wail and toll,
Each time it tears itself apart in dread.
But when it does not lie or hang its head,
Nor turns away from truths too raw to hold,
It grips itself with courage bright and red
And weaves emotions into lines untold.

At times, the rhyme arrives as if by fate,
Reversing all the meaning meant before,
And then the poem forms at rapid rate,
Outpacing thoughts not yet conceived in store.
It takes its flight, untamed forevermore,
A shadow of its memory remains—
How wondrous is the shape that words explore
When perfect rhythm grants them no restraints.

Yet some elusive rhymes escape our hand,
When first we seek the thought, not just the sound.
Then, muzzled, we expect at our command
That inspiration lingers still around.
We wait for days, for weeks we stand unbound,
Like fishermen who cast their nets to land,
Then wonder, asking, “Will it still be found?”
And only patience keeps them firm to stand.

We chase a crane, contented with a sparrow,
We clip its wings and toss it to the sky,
Yet verses best are born in bursts so narrow,
Like fireworks that catch the midnight eye.
And when they burn, all else is left to die,
New light is all we see before its fading—
Then, severing the trembling poet’s tie,
We share the gift, though nerves are loudly fraying.

A poet sleeps in every human heart,
Yet waits in silence, trapped in unknown time,
And none can say when he will play his part,
Or if he ever speaks in woven rhyme.
Yet love ignites his voice in notes sublime,
Its light will pierce the soul, dispelling dark,
Then poetry will flow like summer chime,
As passion sings and sets the spark.

At first, his rhymes are broken, wild, unclear,
Yet learning comes with every burning flame,
And love will teach the heart to persevere,
Until his song and life become the same.
Each verse resounds, it carves his heart, his name,
As evening after evening disappears,
And through it all, he chases but one aim—
To touch the soul beyond the weight of years.

;

I’ll tell you now in verses about verse,
For prose cannot reflect them as they are.
Without the rhyme, the words would soon disperse,
Like dust that fades away from near to far.
Without their shape, no memory would scar,
No trace would rest within the soul immersed,
And time would steal their meaning from the stars,
If not for poetry’s eternal thirst.

A melody that hums inside our dreams,
A symphony of words and tender feeling,
Yet often, reason breaks its boundless beams,
Unwilling to accept its own revealing.
So lost in fear, in doubt, in disbelieving,
It locks the heart behind a door unseen,
Afraid of unknown echoes that are weaving
The poetry it hides in thoughts between.

It seeks instead to speak in common speech,
To rearrange emotions into reason,
To find a language logic dares to teach,
And bend the soul to suit the mind’s cohesion.
Yet poets will not bow to such division,
For verses are not built by mere belief—
They are the voice of feeling’s own precision,
A gift from God, ephemeral yet brief.

A poem is not born from thought alone—
It is a song, and words are notes that play.
Together, they become the undertone
Of beauty that no time can sweep away.
And only when the soul is freed to sway,
Its longing met with silence from the known,
Do poems touch the sky without delay,
For dreams and verses share the same unknown.

Without romance, no poetry would last,
Reality alone cannot compose—
But God’s own hand will lead each line amassed
To where His light in harmony bestows.
And in its glow, the poet surely knows
The grace that lingers softly in its cast,
The gift of words, a whisper that bestows
A balm of peace to heal the wounds amassed.

Each line must follow yet another line,
Like breath itself, it flows into the next,
Yet as we speak, we breathe in words divine,
And feel their warmth within us stand perplexed.
They raise us high, they leave us gently vexed,
For life is both unmeasured and confined—
Yet fragile, fleeting, easily annexed,
And only poems leave its truth behind.

We stand in crowds behind the truly great,
All searching for the words that should be said.
But poems rise beyond their maker’s fate—
We know their voice, but not the hand that bled.
No grinding time can grind their essence dead,
Their whispers linger, speaking soft but straight,
And through their lines, as though in paths they tread,
We see the echoes of celestial fate.