‘tis a poet’s craft to know his words, and in the failings of his tongue invent them proper and suitable and by that definition I’m no poet for my words forsake me there ought to be a word my darling, precisely bespoke for thy lovely countenance I have fabricated, many a word in my time but an epithet for the delight of thy presence I know not the shape or breadth of it for the pronouncement of thy divine beauty could scarcely be expected of a single word but of a manifesto what use a poet that cannot craft proper words? what use if words cannot express the admixture of frailty and savagery in thine eyes? the incomprehensible blend of gravity and levity in thy voice? the clash of promise and candid indifference in thy demeanor? but even, could I conjure such a word, who would understand it? its very entry into a dictionary would pose such challenges as to tax the best of lexicographers, nor would the word be widely used for how many amongst us mortals could ever be honoured enough to know thee? thus here ends my career as a poet noteworthy for naught but my ignominious defeat at the composition of a single word worthy of pronouncement for expression of anything but the resplendence of thine person is as superfluous as are cumulus clouds in the affairs of men what is the point of the poet if not to share what he sees, to record for posterity the beauty and wonder of what lies immediately before him? to allow others to share in the magic and mystery of this mysterious place we inhabit? and how does he do it if not with words? and yet, as I witness the minute rise of a questioning eyebrow the lofty curling of thy lips in disapproval the glint of determination in thine eye what word shall I use? I wish to write gwynnadden, or charbryth, or tandghyem, or even wifflorien! but such sounds simply fail they don’t begin to do the matter justice and no syllable is there to be found with the required dignity to aid me in my composition ergo my abdication from words ergo ‘tis silence I bequeath to those that remain ergo my resignation to the fate of the Zen monk who, having uncovered the face of God understands well that it cannot be partaken that the benefits of one man’s labour in seeking, cannot inure to another and that we each in our own turn see the face of God whether we realise it or not but that we do so all on our own there really is no point in penning our thoughts if others cannot see what we do if the words cannot convey the reverence we are graced with the gratitude, for we deserve nothing yet receive so much thus is writing poetry but a wasting of paper and the poet breath squandered and this verse rubbish the lot of it [1-V-2020]