The School of Poetry

A well-read die-hard patron of that fabled bard
Who swore by his rare eloquent flair
Showed up, one balmy morning, at his boulevard
Along was his lad, little darling Sinclair

“Sir! So much to your genius, beholden this age
Splendidly far-fetched, the grandeur of your finesse
Would you be so kind, to embrace my boy under your tutelage?
For only you, poetry’s school sublime, wisdom’s prime recess”

The bard jibed, “Dear! You’ve known my gems, not doggerels, wasted epics, I live with
Not a born bard, took duds and scorns in stride, as milestones of a stirring pilgrimage
Picked up poesy in school of life, unquelled instincts refined, my only means, to give with
An unschooled rhymester, stumbled over visions, paid my way, a grand homage

Not bread, though wine, takes its own prized time to make and mellow
With pods of thoughts, in the winery of soul, brewed with passions galore
A riot within that spills and fills a shroud of time with words that hallow
A labored ode, was always there, now more pronounced, with the yearn heart bore

A respective view, never all visions true, alike or false, a monumental mystery
The elegance lies in blending all, in a frame of motley differences
A gift to embellish banal truths and murky facts or obnoxious lies of history
All turned into magnum opuses, through the prism of a wordsmith’s rousing senses

A spoon to stir pied latent echoes, in the virgin depths of uncharted soul
Ponder upon the trades so far of thoughts, beliefs, trials and verdicts
The voice of inner sanctum that decrees the bard, to be earnest in his goal
The onus sublime, to rid civilization of deviance from noble edicts

A window into the divine mystic, where fancy does only stretch
Touch upon the other realm, with the bewilderment of surreal
Brazen it out with abysmal dreads, of my own unknown wretch
And entomb therein, phantoms of our making, we agree, “They ain’t real!”

It’s all about perspective and perseverance, neither mentor nor alma mater. My Son!
With a perspective refined, let the poet in Sinclair persevere and rise
Like a tide that rises, with a captivating drag of sun
God bless our small swan, may he soar and shine in the solemn skies”


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