Creative writing: poetry by Meg Sherman

Creative writing: poetry by Meg Sherman

Meg Sherman has been writing poetry since 2016, and has since written more than 1000 poems.

Meg says: ” I always longed to write blistering romantic poetry that transcends the realm of the mortal and is forged in divine fire, but I didn’t have the necessary creative flow, until a series of visionary spiritual experiences came to me that unlocked my creative mind.

“I have severe autism, which in some spheres of life hinders me, but in my craft it means I am able to copy, seamlessly emulate famous poets, like Blake, Dickinson, Bradstreet and even Shakespeare. The translation of the muse to the page is an alchemical, mysterious process, all I know is that when I write I feel in harmony with the cosmic flow of ideas. My philosophy of poetry is most akin to William Blake, conveying an affinity with angels and incorporating mythic, esoteric themes. Like him I am deemed “mad.”

When I’m in the mood I sometimes perform my poetry, by rote, at open mics, but have an allergy to the competitive politics that sometimes goes with being known on the circuit.”

For more of Meg’s poems, visit:


Ballad Of The Bards (Anthem For Albion)

Midst wizened trees the ancient word
Blows through ears that strive to have heard
The magic medley of the land
The stirring Spring gestates her garland
Dribbling music to the bards

We are the bards. Long time ago
We dwelled and swelled in Nature’s glow
We lived, felt Love, but now we go
Searching for rainbow, to and fro

Our path takes us high and low
To truth, which raptures us in throe
The torch of truth be ours to hold
In streams of dreams and fires of gold
Sat brooding in desire and woe



In time gone by, a mythic golden age,
Aspires boy with imagination gold,
To fly on wings of God through which fierce rage,
Fire redolent of primordial old,
For bold heights, borne aloft on zephyrs sweet,
Not oceans fathomless could quench the thirst,
A journey start on humble, youthful feet,
Hurls Icarus to new heights, fathomed first,
Lo! Alight! He sweeps, and swoops, sweet soar,
O’er moon, bonny rainbow touch,
Zooms past angels, twirls and pirouettes,
Climbing on heavens stair up and up,
Gathered, earthly crowds watch the ascent,
Stupefied in awe at his mean feat,
Only adds to heartbreak of descent,
When, broken, he lands at his father’s feet,
And fables will condemn thee for thy dream,
But Icarus who are we to judge?
It’s as if God’s kingdom is a sham,
For daring, striving, why not Zeus’ badge?
Learned men think they can liken you,
To a mouse competing with the sun,
But thee? A lion leaping through,
The skies through which the cosmic fires run,
To most of us the sun is just a smote,
The truth, aloof, of that lordly flame,
So why your vision of it we cold smote?
Icarus in flight knew not our game,
Climb to heaven, babe, do it again,
To do it not once, twice, is your fate,
It’s not a callous tale of mice and men,
But one of zest for life insatiate.


“Rapture” is what we feel

“Rapture” is what we feel –
The Bliss – the sheer cascade –
Love – eclipse – the sorrow –
Lo – the soul’s abade –
“Rapture” is all we hear –
The Beatitude – the Hymn –
Wherein Passion’s kingdom –
Lo – a dwelling solemn –
“Rapture” is all we know –
Instinct – surpass – Reason –
Her art suffice to save the soul –
From Devil’s liaison.

The Seraph

Angel, angel, spirit true,
Blessed fires run through you,
What fine art could frame thy face,
And capture thy immortal grace?

On what distant shores or sands,
Do you work the magic of thy hands?
When Seraphim frolic on fair wings,
Does thy Creator sing?

What skilled hand, and what mind,
Could craft the beauty of thy shine?
And when thine eyes began to see,
Did you see the world with amity?

Where there’s beauty, where there’s love,
Can Seraphim be found above?
Where passion burns its fearsome sparks,
Does the Angel move in arcs?

When you were born of His imagination,
Did He rejoice in thy creation?
When your wings were finished whole,
Did He rejoice in thy soul?

Angel, angel, spirit true,
Blessed fires run through you,
What fine art could frame thy face,
And capture thy immortal grace?


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