In garb drab, and cold, cold room
a hand dips brush in gold..
Transforms a sheet of vellum smooth
to story, lovely told.
.
Head bent low in candlelight
his hunger never fed,
for though this man of God has food
art takes it's place instead.
.
Notes not he, the winter chill
as he draws vines and flowers.
Concentrating in such depth,
his prayers are for hours.
.
That he may stay in his small cell
and finely draw the letters.
He lives a life colored so bright,
he notes not his life's fetters..
.
A hundred years, a thousand years,
this monk without a name,
will be adored just for the art
that gloried his God's name.
.
Feign
Aug 08, 2012
Illuminated
About This Poem
Last Few Words: Belief systems interest me,so sometimes I write about something that may construed as an affinty to a partcular one. This could not be more untrue. I find the development of the arts fascinating, and the contemplative life extremely enticing (sometimes) The last thing I want to do is go all Holy Moly, However, this poem is not religious to me. Also I don't rhyme very much, so I took a shot.
Style/Type: Structured: Western
Review Request Direction:
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Review Request Intensity: I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Editing Stage: Editing - draft
Comments
no quote yet......
I did something baaaaaaaaaad and the poem did not appear, two finger typing isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Sorry if I confused.anyone. I gave myself 7 Hail Marys and a reading asssignment,4 hours of studying the Kamasutra, and 30 seconds off The Book of Mormons