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Best Poems Written by Claire De La Grange

Below are the all-time best Claire De La Grange poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Heartthrob

Upon her thorny heart I bleed;
My rose I nurtured from a seed,
With blazing bloom and perfume sweet,
Who pricked me with her warm deceit,
To where I gladly bade her leave.

Her eyes and smile they did precede,
A witchly soul that did deceive,
My love to stumble with conceit;
Upon her thorny heart.

If I could pluck her to be freed,
And rip her from my soul, indeed,
My lesson thus would be complete,
Sough not a love in lusty heat.
To this my penance I accede, 
Upon her thorny heart.

Details | Claire De La Grange Poem

My Friends In Poetry

Dear Alliteration, 
First friend, foremost;
Forgetting not,
Shy Allegory, 
Dressed in Allusion; 
Sweet Anaphora, 
How I need thee! 
How I need thee!
 
And Assonance; 
Never deep asleep, 
Nor rest Refrained, 
By Caesura; 
Clever Chiasmus; 
Who has pause to write, 
And write to pause; 
Cheeky Consonance, 
Agreeing;
Time needs its tick-tock, 
Rocked at chimes; 
How Didactic, 
An Ictus, 
Ellipsis, 
Is that?
 
Clink — tinkle; 
Cubes in a glass; 
Bourbon mist; 
Hello; 
Onomatopoeia is back, 
From visiting, 
Palindrome, 
At Lake Oxoboxo, 
Madam Eve, 
Our favorite, 
Paradox, 
Not pair a ducks, 
Nor Parataxis, 
She quacked not; 
She waddled not; 
She flew not; 
End stopped; 
Did not, 
Run into Enjambment, 
Iambic, 
Pentameter, 
On foot nearby; 
Rhyme Royal chanting;
Prose babbling, 
Out of line, 
Screaming;
Vers libre!
Vers libre!

Pathos, 
Pity me; 
Scan not,
My prosody;
Bravo!
The coins are tossed;
O my dear friends, 
In poetry, 
Therein lay, 
Our Eulogy, 
Paradise Lost.

Details | Claire De La Grange Poem

My Fallen Fay

Twas’ by a waterfall quite late,
Beneath the stars, full moon awake,
I saw my tiny love, my Fay,
Upon a mossy bank, she lay;

At first glance, I thought a dragonfly,
Poor thing had died whilst on the fly,
Fell there dead on that cold wet ground,
Until a closer look, bent down;

What I thought a mosquito hawk,
Sent me shivers whilst I gawked,
Arms, two legs, such delicate wings,
With Violet gown laid my undine;

I dare not touch her least she break,
Then realized it was my fate,
To take her home, to mend her there,
My little Fay with golden hair;

I placed her in a matchbox bed,
A cotton ball beneath her head,
Cut blankets from a silken scarf,
And tucked her in with weeping heart;

The days that passed where dreary ones,
For I was worse than faerie dumb,
And cursed myself each pacing night,
Inept to help my fading sprite;

With drooping eyes, and quite depressed,
I felt my heart sink in my chest,
My dear sweet Fay was turning blue,
And there was nothing I could do;

My shoulders shook, my tears were rain,
My love for Fay an aching pain,
I prayed take me, take me instead, 
Then little Fay moved in her bed;

Into the air, a dart she flew,
Her wings a blur, no longer blue,
Around my head, she circled twice,
Then out the window, lost to night;
My heart became an empty thing,
Until I heard the buzz of wings,
And saw sweet Fay had spun around
With wand in hand, she shrunk me down;

My clothes are piled on the floor,
Gargantuan garb, which I once wore,
Dear Fay prefers my naked skin,
And woods have spider webs to spin.

Details | Claire De La Grange Poem

Thinking Hereafter

I shall go weary with a fight, 
Into that strange and ever night, 
Across the bounds of thistle-thorns, 
To dance a jig neath golden horns; 
Perchance, I breathe a sulfured air, 
For earning less than heaven’s fair, 
I’ll take my place within the blaze, 
To gladly boil away my days; 
Or if I’m sat upon a shelf, 
Betwixt to ponder soul and self, 
Account my earthly deeds, to sum, 
Those Righteous, those righteous none; 
I’ll build myself an abacus, 
With bones and teeth, I’ll never miss;

Who really knows the consequence,
Of living life upon the fence,
None dead I know have come to me,
And said with any certainty,
To nail myself upon a cross,
Be born again, or join a Mosque;
Religion seems just gobbledygook, 
I’m right, you’re wrong, in countless books,
Demons, devils, angels singing,
The pit, with pendulum swinging;
If I were God, I’d give a peek,
Let children see what life can wreak,
Pull the wool over sneaky Nick;
The devil has his share of tricks;

But who am I to say these things;
I’ve spent my life in selfish dreams,
Just because my bell has tolled,
And each breath I take is soured old,
Doesn’t lend me a hedge to bet,
What lies beyond my mortal death;
Too late, I haven’t seemed to grasp,
What formula to ever last;
Worst, I’ll be but seeping silage,
Left for bugs and worms to pillage,
Or, perhaps a greater power,
Will intervene at my last hour;
In either case, upon that night,
I shall go weary with a fight.

Details | Claire De La Grange Poem

The Spirit of Otter Lake (Roundel)

At Otter Lake, whilst welkin starry clear,
A ghostly wail bruits eerily despair,
And eyes appear alit like embers near,
At Otter Lake.

Avaunt, the trappers pray, bedim thy glare;
In sooth, thy mourning grieves a bygone year,
From earthly bourn, ascend to angels care.

Arose a zephyr, thick as bloodied air,
And shrieking withered every soul with fear,
To where a man durst lay his footsteps there,
At Otter Lake.

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Quick Thinking

There once was a reverend named Frost,
Who Satan wanted no matter the cost,
A soul I'll wager you,
For all things I can do,
I agree, said the reverend, get lost.

Details | Claire De La Grange Poem

The Last Wolf

They poison the sheep,
Believing wolves can’t die.

Death is indiscriminate!

They can’t see it,
Their new genesis,
Feeding on the withered bodies
Of bleating sheep,
Engendered in the putrid froth,
Dripping from the wolf’s jowls.

Their eyes are dilated egos,
Glazed-over with impotent apathy,
Empty as a cloudless sky,
One obscure horizon,
Melting like dirty ice,
Into the other.

Disregarded behind tinted glass!

Slightly afraid — eventually,
They applaud a common stratagem,
A method to poison the poisoned,
Secretly wondering,
If gods can really die.

There is a rumor of frailty!

Someone coughs.
A bead of yellow sweat signs a contract!

They make nervous excuses.
Rush in undisclosed unison,
Holding their breath
Behind monogrammed handkerchiefs,
To wash trembling hands,
In private restrooms,
But the sinks
Are full of blood.
 
The last wolf howls
Ignoring the moon.

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Irreplaceable

The breath of fall, a gauzy mist exhaled, 
Ascending, burthens seas of dappled gray, 
From whence the weeping heart of life unveiled, 
Bejewels woods in glistening display;

And there amidst the gilded alder leaves, 
The hanging mossy shawls so richly green, 
My soul is threaded with the verdant weaves, 
Envisioning the epoch Miocene;

Then up ahead, I see my venture's end; 
Across a road exists another time; 
And once again, I say so long my friend; 
Then sadly leave her fragile world behind.

The rip of chainsaws marks another load, 
As ancient dead are carried down the road.

Details | Claire De La Grange Poem

Lusus Naturae Sonnet 47 (Petrarchan)

Between the witching hour and saffron dawn,
When guileless hearts are peacefully asleep,
An evil prowls a wolf amidst the sheep,
With fangs as bloody daggers swithly drawn;

And erelong the warmth of blood shall spawn,
A frenzy thus unloosed from hellish keep,
While all the angels’ watch and soothly weep,
As souls are bled, until ungodly gone.

Awake I prithee, yon morrow blushes night;
While sun forestalls evil in its grave,
Prepare a holy arsenal to fight;
And double-glaze thine eyes with marbled sight;

Your dead, undead shall rise a vampires’ slave,
Then woe to hearts unsheathed eftsoons twilight.

Details | Claire De La Grange Poem

Perfectly Breakable

Mother buried hacked-up carp beneath 
pink rose mallow. She knew the filthy cats 
would come. A balled-up dirty rag 
and coffee tin of smelly kerosene 
were garrisoned behind a red berry twistwood. 
Mother would hide in a column of shadow 
near the porch. Ambush the cats as they dug 
for carp. Their noses spiced with fish-oiled peat. 
Tails flagged above puckered targets. 
Mother was quick with her kerosene rag — spot on! 
A hush-hush tripwire stretched taut round 
the perimeter of mother’s mortared desperation. 
The sacrosanct, lint-free, perfect world, where 
she demanded God wipe His feet at her door. 
Dear Mother, our Elizabeth Taylor dead ringer, 
who could waltz with kings, or gut them with a glare. 
Ghetto mother, who would murder to keep 
her suburbs white, the cat crap gone, and 
her prize mallow big as Frisbees. I couldn’t 
let it storm on mother. She would get crazy 
if her galvanized tin-roof mind was rattled. 
Her daughter always had to shine. I kept 
the attic window shutters well oiled. Mother 
never heard my bare feet crisscrossing 
the roof, as I ran to catch the rain.