Birth of a Poet(edit) no new title yet

[TranquillityBase]

What it is to be              I keep wanting to read this as a question: What is it to be....
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
 
caught between the dream
and not, a mind split       the real?
by that cutting light, 
 
mysterious; a glimpse 
of shadowed edges,
what exists at the seams
of the world.
 
Alone, standing revealed
before the mirror, 
windows unshaded.                beneath a clear sky?  open to the world?   "windows unshaded" seems too pedestrian for what came before
 
Then whittled.
Cut to find the heartwood,
their penknives so sharp;
trimmed, shaped, made beautiful?   why the question mark?
Something reborn.                             too vague
 
To bleed
in that birthing.
 
To find that hunger          
for your own blood.


This is a poem I have reworked formerly titled "Critique".

Bryn,

Gladdened to see a new poem from you.  And a very polished one at that, but then yours always are.  I think it captures the poetic impulse nicely.

I feel like you need a transition between stanzas 4 and 5.  The jump from those first four to the following three seems abrupt, and you essentially have two climaxes as it stands.

Also, I'd revisit the title.  "Morning of a Poet"?  "Dawn of a Poet"?  I would suggest "Blood of a Poet" but that's been used, I think by Lorca, but maybe that doesn't matter.

TqB