An Ode To A Poetess

I sit,
at the very bottom of her feet,
like an astute statue
and watch with awe and wonder,
as the poetess deftly
breathes life into her creations.

I rest,
in the poetess’ limbs,
watching the way
she yarns and strings together threads
of impressive similes and imagery
that conveys and says
the very emotions lurking deep in my breast.
She magically arranges
the idioms in perfect
alignment and in harmony with my psyche.
How did she know about
the vibes steaming and streaming in my veins?
She’s saying the very things
that I failed to give voice to.
My lips were afraid
to mouth them then.
She has given life to these words.

Her metaphors are plodding
and fingering at my trepidations.
With further alliteration,
she will rhyme my pain.
Each meter in each stanza
is a probe and a personal assault.
With enough repetitions,
this poetess will hypnotize
me with unheralded reality.
And with a penultimate syllable,
I’ll drink from her quill,
While my joy and angst spills
on her mature scroll.

Slowly and with a startled glance,
I gaze at the pot of my
run-away emotions taking shape.
With an awed wonder and a close respect,
I can only
vaguely guess the end product.

Will it be;
An Ode?
A Sonnet?
A Lyric?
A Burlesque?
A Carpe Diem?
An Elegy?
A song?
A Ghazal?
An Epic or
A Ballad maybe perhaps?

In a moment I will know,
while still at the potter’s feet.
She the poet in a dark night
by the spring of life,
has trawled my very being with a sure meaning.
She kills I slowly and tenderly
with a potent intent,
painting my life story
with the colours of the wind.
Praise thee poetess..

© Ayoub Mzee 2012


© Ayoub Mzee 2012