World Poetry Day



To celebrate World Poetry Day, I am publishing one of my poems, which is still a “work in progress.” It is one of those poems you can read from top to bottom, and from bottom to top. It showcases my lack of confidence as a poet, and it reflects on the cycles writers go through regarding their ability and inspiration to write. I hope you enjoy reading it.

A Poet’s Struggle

I am not a poet. No.

It is settled.

I do not wish to write about love gained or lost.

I do not follow form.

I do not count words.

Or measure lines, for that matter.

I do not arrange words in precise groups of three or four, or one.

I do not pursue the perfect rhyme.

I am not a poet. No.

I have not earned it. To be called so.

Inspiration for poetry evades me.

Poetry muse, where are you?

I resist resurrecting old wounds. Feeling the sweltering pain again.

So I can be called “a poet” …

I do not hold a torn heart now, but

I shed tears, long ago.

The memory hurts. I choose not to remember.

Not real love.

The endless pit of youth’s infatuation.

If I only had the benefit of knowledge then. I was but a child.


Pleasure and pain. Mesmerizing. Addictive. Shattering.

I have longed for a source of inspiration. Anything … anything, but lost love.

It terrifies me.

But poetry does not only root in desolation …

Inked words could render life, moonlight, or naturally, the sea …

writing about love could be wasteful.


love must sometimes root within the poet’s lines!

Those with a beating heart have felt it. Lost it.

I fear looking foolish …

if I become vulnerable …

they will mock me

Why should I even try? There is no use.

This faculty is saved for mythical creatures. …

I am not deserving.

Do I have this gift within me?

How dare I?

No, I am not a poet.

I have attempted to write poetry, but I face a cold stonewall. Always.

Mine are senseless, entangled words … Worthless.

I will not endure desperation just so I can write poems,

unearth words like “ethereal,” or “withering,” or “jagged,” or “scorched,”

envision colors like “verdigris” and “lilac blue” …

poets hear “screeching” or “crystal” sounds in the background when they write …

I am not made of this.

What are poets made of?

Poets are mythical. Complex. Gentle. Creative. Vulnerable. Bold.

Theirs is a birth-given gift.

How arrogant of me! Daring to write poetry… become a poet.

I cannot possibly do this alone.

The muse abandons me!


I feel nothingness.

I pause.

I breathe deeply.

I shut my eyes, and I let go. The barriers crumble down.

I long for the muse to guide my senses.

I must enter a world of pain. Loneliness.

I must concentrate. Meditate.

I feel the muse …

I transport myself deep into an illusory world …

I feel it with the tips of fingers and the soles of my feet.

I am sitting on the cold sand,

while listening to the sea foam rock the seashells against the shore,

singing a perpetual marine lullaby,

the scent of tears of heartbroken mermaids

… under the rays of a bright azure moon enlightening the glass water surface …

Finally. A stream of words flows through my mind like the most crystalline substance.

I can foresee myself as a poet.

The muse is here, within me …

I am the poet.

… a translucent charm is filled with the enchanting dust of imagination and creativity, …

suspended from the poet’s neck by soft lavender lace,

vaporizing intermittently, the magic is

injected through the air into the poet’s mouth, nurtured inside the poet’s very core,

… with atoms of energy escaping through the poet’s fingertips, …

I awaken in darkness to sense the muse. It is within me as I write this.

“Never mind binds, or form. Write what your soul feels,” I hear the muse’s sound waves whisper.

I am listening.

Am I a poet?

I dare so.

I know so.

I am.

The muse has spoken.

There are no binds.

It is settled.

I am a poet.


Copyright © 2017 Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction prohibited without permission. 



About tiradochiodini

I am a attorney, entrepreneur and author blogging about business, law, entrepreneurship, writing, books and other subjects.
This entry was posted in General, My writing and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to World Poetry Day

  1. Carmencita Burgos says:

    What a beautiful poem!


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