Travails of a Budding Poet – A Fiction
Tens of twilights have been trapped in the dirty scarfs of the lady night, since my proverbial horse’s back was mended. It was gradually healing and bravely steadying its foot, ready again to saddle me, through my travailing “poescapades”.
Thanks to my newly found redemptive vigour, crocheting poetic lines became more liberating, rewarding and fulfilling. It simply became about doing what I loved to do and enjoying it, rather than doing it for accolades. The simple notion of conceiving a muse, penning it and closing its final verse was a priceless thrill.
ALSO READ: TRAVAILS OF A BUDDING POET CHAPTER ONE
Fuelled by a stubborn desire to excel in the bardish art, I became exclusively indulged with poeia, incessantly conceiving mind pleasing muses, and trading them with the best narratives and dictions my mind could negotiate, at random will.
My knack for rhythm and rhyme patterns were flourishing, to my surprise, and so too were my resourcefulness with words, along with a deft poetic touch. I was quickly becoming midas, anything I touched became gold or better still – poetry. They were of the smoldering magic, lent to me by nature, which were getting kindled.
ALSO READ: TRAVAILS OF A BUDDING POET CHAPTER TWO
I would stitch an entire poem with linear rhythm patterns or rhyme schemes with little effort. I never really operated with muse. All I just needed to do was pick up my pen and poetry would just gush, right through its tip. It was that easy.
In fact, I was beginning to see someone I could refer to as a marinated poet anytime I looked in the mirror. It was indeed a swooning experience, an indeed joyous road on my poetic Voyage, at least for the while it lasted, for it soon received a staggering blow, right through the ribs.
To be continued….
© Ahmad Abdulsamad, 2018