This poem talks about an inexperienced, youthful, or just unsuccessful writer’s sense of awe, in the face of the Great Masters of the craft. A toast, to all the writers of all time. If you write, you are a writer! Thanks for coming by to read.
I respect all
Who take up the quill,
Who waken, with quill in hand:
Men who surrender
And do its will
And exchange the rich for bland.
I respect him
Who scribbles away
And cripples his lazy limbs,
Succumbs to the sound
Of a well-turned phrase,
And forfeits his right to hymns.
I respect her
Who closets herself
And deposits the kids beyond,
Allowing dust
To pile mountains high,
While she writes her secret song.
I respect those
Who pawn their clothes
For a morsel of bread and gruel,
And rack their brains
And wreck their hands
For the words, that are their fuel.
I respect them
Who take up the quill,
Who brandish the quill with pride.
How I’d cry with glee
If such were me
And a quill lay by my side!
Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew
For more on the quest for Fame and Fortune, read Waiting.
Thank you for the poetic bit of encouragement for the writer’s life. It’s most welcome!
Happy to oblige. Sometimes we need to be our own cheerleaders!😊
Indeed we do!
ah
cheers to writers everywhere – him and her and they
and the quill layers
but the beauty of the sacrifice many make for writing
ahhhh
an your poem was an example
“Of a well-turned phrase”
and more
Thanks dear priorhouse. Hoping every pronoun is producing plenty of pronouns for posterity!