Requiem

[Hawkman]

I stand in the necropolis of shadows
and the silence of the brooding sky
hangs o’er my head,
while high above,
uncounted stars
that mock the vanity of life.
Now I confess my crime upon the wind
that moans its pleasure,
or perhaps its pain;
to the cliché of the moaning wind
both joy and sorrow sound the same.

Here, I killed my dreams,
with my bare hands I murdered them,
crushed them, ‘til all their life was spilled
and the blood
from potential’s ashen lips,
trickled, dripped
and fell to the parched and baking sand,
for this is the arena
where, to entertain the mob,
despair will show his hand.

But a memory remains,
one memory of a dream,
whose ever-changing face
possessed a knowing smile
and eyes that loved and shone their light
to warm the seed, long withered now.
But I’ve no use for the memory of dreams
and I have grown old waiting.
With my feet awash within its chilling stream
the consciousness of absence
fills my heart,
unbidden and unseen.

[Bar22do]

Requiem

I stand in the necropolis of shadows
and the silence of the brooding sky
hangs o’er my head,
while high above,
uncounted stars
(that) mock the vanity of life.
Now I confess my crime upon the wind
that moans its pleasure(,)
or perhaps its pain;
to the cliché of the moaning wind
both joy and sorrow sound the same.

Here, I killed my dreams,
with my bare hands I (murdered them),
crushed them, ‘til all their life was spilled
and the blood
from potential’s ashen lips,
trickled, dripped
and fell to the parched and baking sand,
for this is the arena
where, to entertain the mob,
despair will show his hand.

But a memory remains,
one memory of a dream,
whose ever-changing face
possessed a knowing smile
and eyes that loved and shone their light
to warm the seed, long withered now.
But I’ve no use for the memory of dreams
and I have grown old waiting.

With my feet awash within its chilling stream
the consciousness of absence
fills (my heart,
unbidden and unseen) ME?.

Hawk, the N killed the dreamS, retained the memory of ONE with “the knowing smile”, then thinks he has no use of that memory of dreamS (of the killed dreams?), the memory of the One not bringing Her back anyway… oh, how troubled the N must be. Poor N. But what mob? Who wouldn’t cry to N's despair? Do I miss sth?

I loved:

“With my feet awash within its chilling stream
the consciousness of absence
fills my heart, “

as well as the gloomy atmosphere of your poem, which I enjoyed reading through, oh Hawk. I put in the brackets what to me reads superfluous, but feel free to disregard! tell N not to despair, unless he wants us to have the Greek tragedy here, but for this we need a theater, not an arena!!!! we're not Mob!

Best regards to N, and to you, and thank you both

Bar

[PrinceMyshkin]

How confidently and fluently this builds to the quiet lament of these lines:


the consciousness of absence
fills my heart,
unbidden and unseen.

[Revolte]

Man I sure did feel this one, I loved it.

[lallison]

Much darker theme's these days, Hawk. Whatever the reason, I'm a fan of the Gothic, and a Gothic poem has been achieved here. Here are a few of my favorite lines:

and the blood
from potential’s ashen lips,
trickled, dripped
and fell to the parched and baking sand,
and

and eyes that loved and shone their light
to warm the seed, long withered now.
and

With my feet awash within its chilling stream
the consciousness of absence
fills my heart,
unbidden and unseen.
all are darkly eloquent.
I do agree with Bar in that you could tweak this a bit to improve it. There are some seemingly superfluous sections. The main one I noticed was in the first line, which really bit at me

I stand in the necropolis (of shadows)
necropolises tend to be pretty shadowy without the redundancy of description, plus it's your first line, so you want to make an impression.

The only other suggestion I can make is to read through it and fill in vague abstractions with vivid details. example:
Here, I killed my dreams,
with my bare hands I murdered them,
I think it would be very engaging to read precisely what your murdered dreams are (were) and how they met their demise at your fingertips. It's those kind of details that can give some serious power to a poem like this.

of courses, it is delving into those realms that drive so many poets to unhappy endings. You have achieved a bleak sorrow here, the questions is, do you want to take a step deeper into sheer blackness. lal

[Hawkman]

Sweet Bar,

I don’t think you’ve missed much. The memory of the one dream, the narrator’s ideal love, forever changing but with the warmth and loving nature which defines her, sought but never found, until the search is ultimately abandoned (and rejected as weakness perhaps). Utterly alone he can only perform at the whim of society. And no, you could never be part of any mob,
But if the arena were a theatre then surely your tears would wash away his pain :D

I think the poem would still work with the excision of, ‘murdered them’. but I wished to illustrate the brutality of the narrator’s resolve. I’ll give it some thought, along with your other observations, although I feel to modify the final line as you suggest would diminish both its impact and rhythm.

As always, thank you for the attention you have given my scribblings.

Live and be well.

Thanks my Prince, glad it works for you.

Revolte,
Hi and thanks for stopping by. I’m most gratified you loved it; one for reading after a break-up, half cut and wallowing in self-pity I feel. Hope you don’t need to read it too often then! :lol:

Lal,

Thanks and I’m glad you found so much to like in it. I see what you’re saying with regard to the opening line, but may I suggest you give it another look?

I’m trying to convey a little more than just saying its gloomy, shadowy and spooky.

What is a necropolis? A necropolis is a city of the dead, a place where bodies are buried. A necropolis of shadows. What does this imply? By my reckoning and intent I am implying that this is the place where shadows are buried, what the shadows are is implied as we proceed further into the poem.

As for your other suggestion, I am disinclined to delineate the murdered dreams, (I would hope that you would not confuse the author with the narrator here :smilewinkgrin: ) as I would rather leave their nature to the imagination of the reader. Let the them identify their own lost hopes and identify with the subject. I don’t want to spell it out for them! :D When I wrestle with my demons you can be sure I won’t be doing it in public. That really would be a vulgar entertainment for the mob! :hand:

So, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay in the light for now ;)

Thank you all for reading and commenting and may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. :angel:

H

[Delta40]

Man, that is so beautiful! The poetry of darkness 'Here, I killed my dreams'

excellent

[Hawkman]

Thanks D40, Glad it moved you.

Best, H