We write because we must. Poetry is born of sorrow and joy, love and loss, triumph and disaster. It is inspired by sunset and sunrise, by spring flowers and winter snow, and it comes to us, almost painfully, seeking a way out, a way forward, a way towards and we wrestle with words, with images, with rhyme and intense feelings until suddenly, there it is, on the page, the poem – our poem, eager to be read, anxious to be felt.
Poem of the Month
Dreams
by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.