Jester's apprentice, violet veined,
I die to dance upon your stage.
Recall that I, the human stain,
A conquering worm, infirm with age,
Has wished for naught but birth-release--
A way to bring my brain decease.
Yet you insist, as times before,
That I pause my pagan rites
To seek another dancing floor;
An alternate to fuel my nights.
So I sit and weep backstage
As life winds me in its rage.
I know my time has come and gone,
I was the brightest of the stars,
Winked but once, and scarcely shone,
And proudly now, I bare my scars.
I am a soldier, fire-ant queen.
I am an altar, half obscene.
Take heart with me, befuddled lordling,
See the cherry-pits of doom.
Taste the ichor of my scorning,
Aim your bullets for the moon.
When the artichoke abstains,
Your gradient grace will be to blame.
Skip stones on the freckled lake,
Pay in dimples for my trial,
In my hairline fracture, bake,
Drain with me this virulent vial.
Sing with me, o fevered choir--
Chorus spinning on a wire.
Let us live our fire out,
Ill-mannered not to yield the ghost.
Let us whisper, ere the shout
Of sorcerers has summoned hosts.
Enspectred cobwebs catching time,
Let us live our welcome dry.
(finis)
Sunday, 6 August, 2006, 3:38 pm
Is it too cliché? Is that it? Is it too much like my older work? Does it not display enough development as a writer?
In other news, I would like to announce, for the second post in a row, my complete adoration for a thespian. Yes, yes...blah, blah. This time it's John Cleese. Sometimes I just want to take Basil Fawlty and kiss his nose, hand him some tea and crumpets (real ones) and tell him it's all going to be all right.
Sorry, back to poetry. I've been reading over my old poetry, and found that at some point during my late fifteenth, early sixteenth year, I made a switch from lofty fixed verse to some very abstract concepts indeed. I stopped writing poetry based on Aristotle and started writing based on myself.
Yes, my work has suffered.
And furthermore, I've only ever written two or three narrative poems. One was about Icarus and what he found when he got to Hades, another about a nightmare I had, and the other...well...judge for yourself.
The Words*
I dreamt that my words were torn--
Halting, falling from my mouth;
It was almost as though they were sliced away
As they came falling--
My name they were
Calling, as they trickled
To their doom.
I found them in a leather-bound book
And the pages were worn, and water-stained
But the pen-markings hadn’t gone anywhere
They lay suspended half-way in the air.
Like phantom figures in an old ballet
That nobody’s seen, but everyone knows
And then there was nothing, I still couldn’t speak
Because the words were light-fast,
They wouldn’t leave the pages
Though I jolted and tossed, and licked them off the pages.
I rushed into the street, and machines swerved around me
Avoiding the inevitable impact of metal,
But I couldn’t scream, my words were worthless
Scrawled out in silence, too small to see.
Well, I spoke to the sun in its own peculiar language—
I’d learnt it from someone born in a volcano,
It did not require words that were voiced with the
Mouth and the throat, and the tongue, only the soul
Played an essential tune to communing with the singular
Beaming, life-giving, conflagrating sun.
It was nearly a fight to force out my thoughts
From my soul, I had never done this before
Though I knew how to do it—one must only be honest
With the sun, because it knew everything already.
I said,
“Would you please give me back my words,
Or at least could you tell me
Where have they gone? I don’t know, I have looked.”
And the sun said, “You’ve found them already—
They’re in that book that’s right in your hands.”
So I looked at the first page,
And it said a line of Shakespeare,
A pretty proverb from the Phoenix and the Turtle,
A very old poem that nobody knows anymore.
My mouth, it opened, and I wrapped my tongue around
Every letter, but I couldn’t quite make any sense.
The sounds I emitted were all very rusted,
Like doors that haven’t been opened in years.
But I had just been speaking the day before yesterday,
And yesterday there wasn’t anything to say,
So I hadn’t spoken a single word.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t say anything.
Then I thought,
‘Well, this is pretty absurd. I’d better go find out
All about this book.”
So I picked myself up, and walked off into the sunset,
As all good adventurers do.
(finis)
And I will leave you with a picture.
Courtesy of a smexy musician.
1 comment:
The reason why I had never commented about that one on the site is because I distinctly remember you showing me that in person, or on messenger, or something of the like... I commented about it then and, therefore, considered the matter completed.
But yes, it does have that tinge of imagery that your older works have.. When you were writing form still but it was mixed with the same vintage in symbols that your open stuff had. Its not cliche, just too nostalgic of your glory days instead of becoming one with themselves itself.
The second one is...stringy. For the amount of what was said, without enough of your delicious images, it was too thin for my liking. The last two lines on the secnd to last stanza throw it off because of their lack of harmony with the rest of the pieces tone...at least, thats what it seems like to me.
I did like the ending though... and the little piece of the Shakesperian proverb. Its reflective.
Love you doll
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