Poet’s Corner: The Poet’s Prize


The poet’s prize is not fame

A trophy or great wealth

Nor captured if he wins the game

With words he puts upon his shelf

Collecting dust in vain …

The poet’s prize he can not steal

From his daily dealings

Nor hide it if he does reveal

His deepest inner feelings

Opened as if peeled …

The poet’s prize may never come

With tales of love and life

He may never beat a sounding drum

Of his deepest thought-filled night

It may all just be “ho-hum” …

And the poet’s prize will not reveal

To many who may read

What hides within his head of steel

Of the times it cuts and bleeds

Until he may succeed …

The poet’s prize is in each word

He puts down on the paper

Like another log within a cord

With inner truth the caper.

As a young man, Philip A. Zentz worked summers on Martha’s Vineyard, commercial fishing out of Menemsha and building stone walls. A retired carpenter, cabinetmaker, and schoolteacher, he now lives in East Bridgewater, but often visits relatives here.