Doomsday’s dismal dawn, in the deep distance,
Is our dusk, the diadem of decadence;
Daunting and depthless, a dark and doleful dirge
Deems this dungeon of demons due for death
Remember, long ago, enrapt of Venus,
in college, brought to meet by chance,
how, falling into that first, most fateful glance
a straightaway spark flirted between us?
And, too, can you recall the eager shyness?
On the day that turned up next, a thrilling trance
hurled us into an uninhibited expanse
which then crackled with electric newness.
But nowadays, that’s just as far away
into the forlorn yesteryear as you
are distant now—and, almost strangers, we’ve
matured apart, growing further every day.
A curse upon wicked fate! who withdrew
her blessing and unraveled our fragile weave!
I sense here some things sinister—a scent
of sulphur, sulking in a sultry pit;
a serpent’s hiss, expressed from space unlit;
a warm spell spilling from some seething vent;
I find now some things filthy—foul ferment
foaming, frothing; a gaseous, gurgling slit
discharging fetid, festering, sour spit;
malignant mold in cold, cracking cement;
So languid, loath, obtuse I trepidate
on into the black bowels of my home.
Gagging back a nausea’s tepid bubble,
shivering a shudder that won’t abate,
discover I a gory catacomb.—
Woah… I see well now how bad my trouble!
Blaggard blaming the blond bloke for his blight:
Blablabla, bluster and bleat, blathering
Blob, your blue blood bleeds blotches on a black
Blossom. Blaspheme, blabber—I blast your bluff.
?A grumpy grandpa (from Greece), gruff and gray,
is grazing on a grain of grass, graceful.
He’s grumbling that the grim grave is growing
greater and greedily greeting his grasp.
I’m as a dare—If just you’ll come along,
and give my noble providence a shot,
seeing what boundless bounty might be got,
you’ll sing me a river, cry me a song.
So if you trust that I can do no wrong,
and yield yourself to untying this knot,
finding this vacant vessel full of thought,
you’ll sing me a river, cry me a song.
Another hint may here do well to tell:
I am music not written for the ear,
a painting—that I am—though not in view.
Being seen, being heard, casting my spell,
I fascinate; this is my blissful sphere.
So know you now, which fancy sings to you?
I’ve seen it, late those myriad afternoons—
A twilight blush, first waiting patiently
to welcome back your scintillating beauty,
next succumbing to your mild midnight swoons;
Your sapphire eyes then gleamed as glowing moons—
Though here facing me, near enough to see,
distantly they shone, reflecting the glee ?of more divinely animated tunes;
Yet, stretching out, I could not seem to reach
your spirit, could not stir your astral soul.
With the stars, glittering light-years away,
you were much too remote for wordly touch.
O me, what fool such a faraway goal
would chase? Was it not wiser home to stay?
The quivering quitters, quaking and quacking
In quite a quizzing quagmire, quietly
Quash their qualms. The ***** quest they have acquired,
Is a quandry of quantum quantity.
Pow! the pale powder pumps power into
The pastor’s panicked pulse. Peeing his pants,
He pulls his parcel and pitter-patters
To the piss-pot, paying his penile penance.
My bars the words, the prison guard my verse,
Rattling the staves of this poetic cell,
I struggle vainly, locked up in this jail.
Yea, thus is my predicament, my curse.
Oh, how jealously, you smirking blank verse,
I look upon what freedom guides your quill;
For formal phrasing does of me compel
Stubborn structures—the styles which I rehearse.
But, boldy bumbling, art is now arising!
Walls becoming my score, and tallies tones, ?Confined to meter, bound by rigid rhyme,
I yet find measures full of surprising
Motifs. The modern poet at sonnets groans,
But I, I do believe they’re quite sublime.
The luckless leper’s lousily lobbing
Lame libel at Lords and Ladies along
His lonesome lane, a lizard in limbo
Loafing on his lowly laurels, laughing.
Through melting meadows and misty mazes,
The madman maestro moves the merry music;
Mystic mountains at the morn’ of magic
Make massive the melody of meek man.
The witch of the woods watches from the window,
While willows’ webs weave wildly in the wind,
And wicked whiffs of worm-water are wafting
From the whirling well of woe and wallow.
Said the Heifer to the Ox: “O‘ sorry Ox,
How terrible to work your heavy yoke,
All day to wheel around that grinding spoke!”
She lay lazy in the shade of nearby rocks.
But Ox plowed onwards. Hearing Heifer’s knocks,
And paying no heed to her pitiful smoke,
He laboured, knowing well the dreadful joke
Which soon was to repay her mindless mocks.
And just then came a large procession near,
Garbed in diadems and resplendent frills;
“O‘ Heifer, if only you’d known your lot,
You’d have held your tongue and lived life in fear!“
The priests, dragging Heifer to the high hills,
Offered her to gods whose favors they sought.
(Inspired by Aesop's "The Heifer and the Ox".)
Shouting across the void, I’ve begged for you;
I’ve heard my straining voice fall lost to the
Abyss between us two; Ignoring my plea,
The echo returned not, no answer due.
Peering into the gulf—oh! what a view—
Reflection there was none, no none to see;
Heeding thus firstly your true nihility,
The echo unreturning, I turned from you.
The echo returns not and neither I.
Forging my faith on solid ground, on earth,
I abandon your illusory hope—
And doing so I leave a dry well dry.
Away with all your falsly minted mirth,
With the true love of my life I elope.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.