Ferdinand L Quintos
A Poet Is A Poet
What am I really up to
trying to write poems?
All my name poems many have read,
they, these people, to light jokes lead,
that with the girl behind each name
some long time past I lit a flame.
But from the truth nothing could be
so far, as far as it could be,
for all this is none but verse,
a craft that sates the universe.
There are so much to write about,
of this there can never be drought,
look skyward or down the earth,
the times will pass, they leave no dearth.
A poet can blow hot or cold,
he too can be timid or bold,
at times he is sweet or bitter,
love-sick today, hate-filled later.
Some people may call him moody,
asking no proof, I plead guilty,
for on it leans good quality
of someone’s productivity.
I write not to climb Parnassus,
though I work with the same onus,
I seek neither cash nor glory,
to be read is, to me, just pay.
Topic of this poem: Poetry
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (A Poet Is A Poet by Ferdinand L Quintos )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1886 - 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(April 13,1939 - August 30, 2013)
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