“But if a man comes to the door of poetry untouched by the madness of the Muses, believing that technique alone will make him a good poet, he and his sane compositions never reach perfection, but are utterly eclipsed by the performances of the inspired madman.”

– Socrates, in Plato’s Phaedres, as quoted in The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield

In deep, the story goes, where sunlight’s kiss
Is rarely felt and shadows forever fall
On pools of liquid silence, there exists,
Beyond the edges of belief, a small
And secret place where silver dreams recall
Another age, and unicorns. Asleep
The maid, too pure in her desire, the thrall
Of lover’s manly sin is heard to weep;
She’s borne by tears into the forest keep
To make a relic of the fabled prize
That once she wore. Nearby the hunters creep
But here upon her knee her virtue lies
In worship, safe until the story’s done.
The maiden and the unicorn are one.

– Stace Dumoski, August 2007

Look, maybe I am prejudiced, but I do believe my daughter has a streak of poetic genius in her, to go along with her ever-awesome drawing ability.

This was written in her summer school creative writing class. She’s ten (and a half — can’t forget the half) and will start 5th grade in a few weeks.

Swimming
Under the water
Do not swim too fast, or miss the beauty.
Tiny bubbles float
Up and up and up towards the surface.
The tiny ripples
And the light reflecting at the bottom.
It never lasts long.
Soon you must go to the surface to breathe.
But you can go back.
Under water, there is peace and quiet.
It is amazing.
Why must we breath air, and not the water?
You might wonder, too.
Why must we have to leave this paradise,
Under the water?
Why can’t we, too, have gills, fins, and flippers,
As all the fish do?
Swimming is all this. I wish it could last.

by Lucy W.