What I have But this woe in me When called to write It’s poetry I never write What I see For what calms and moves Is melody But a distant star Oh so far Over strange lands I travel far And the things I capture Are not what I see For that is a trade Of photography If what I taste Was not preserved For decades upon decades Upon scholarly word I would know far less Than what I state For with my words I alone can’t make A sound to the eye Would any try That doesn’t move It’s a tempest lie A distant sound From another’s lips You know they like it When they move their hips A calm or mood In spoken text When it’s learned with the ears You must confess I would do some justice With poetry For what taste and touch Can never see In what I write I never see For what world exists In melody?
A collection by Patrick Smith