A Captive by Frederick John Blight

This toil-free moment moves me to dissent—
There are no hours offreedom, since the mind
Is no more able, ofits natural bent,
To speak with accents carefree, unconfined
By craven thoughts; but it must choose
Those syllables which meaning often lose
Through their propinquity to common sense.
Prosaic patter of the people, whence
Poetry muSt free the patient word
Whose long captivity breaks, as a bird
Engaging song, with soft sweet sibilants;
Bewitching as the song-bird chants;
One moment seeming free, but next a word,
Studied, encaged for life, a captured bird.

From: Blight, F. John, The Old Pianist: Poems, 1945, Dymock’s Book Arcade: Sydney, p. 29.

Date: 1945

By: Frederick John Blight (1913-1995)

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