I wrote my very first poem,
A long, long time ago,
And sent it to an editor —
A jerk, as I now know.
A month or two had passed away,
A formal note arrived,
A brush-off, cold and standard,
Where my hopes were not survived.
"Your verse is quite pathetic, friend,
No need for details here.
Your rhymes are crooked, lines are weak..."
(The message was quite clear).
A hundred years have flown since then,
But memory holds the sting,
That letter with the "REJECT" stamp,
That fool’s disparaging.
I’ve penned a hundred poems since,
Yet still, I wonder why:
Was I the fool back in those days?
Who knows? Perhaps was I.
But never mind, there’s time ahead!
A hundred thousand more to spread:
Some beautiful, some tender, bright,
Some clumsy, awkward, out of sight!
And here’s a secret, just for you,
Of all the lines I’ve spun:
Believe me, none are quite as dear
As that very first one!
First poem
© Copyright: Святослав Соловьев, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126071703434
Свидетельство о публикации №126071703434
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