"The End" is just a table within a random frame..." that is just one image I love in this poem. In fact you create a series of images with this persona, all the while leaving our imaginations to wildly surmise. Well done, Alakungfu, well done.
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"The End" is just a table within a random frame..." that is just one image I love in this poem. In fact you create a series of images with this persona, all the while leaving our imaginations to wildly surmise. Well done, Alakungfu, well done.
Congratulations, qimissung! Pendragon chose well! I simply love your images and the elegant flow of your lines.
Thank you, Windblown. I look forward to seeing your entry in the next contest! :)
Nice Girls Finish Last
The Last Duchess of Ferrara
So here I am, nailed to the wall.
Why marvel that the painting looks more alive
now? Then, I wonder how I sat so still.
Though Fra Pandolf’s hands busily worked
all day, we passed the time in pleasant chat:
we noted the sun’s soft slants as they filtered
through the room, how the summer breezes reached that window so far from the sea. Somehow
the salt air seemed a bit colder this year.
Then, the session over, Fra Pandolf complained
to you how my mantle overlapped my wrist
and how mortal paint could never capture
that “half-flush that dies” along my throat--
He flattered me!-- yet of my neck, the knives
of your henchmen knew more than you. The blush,
that unwitting glow, the friendly banter, died.
Esteem survives amid your silent artifacts.
I used to be easily pleased, impressed by life:
the improbable bough of cherries, each day’s
sunset, gifts expecting no reciprocal return
for their simple elegance. Round
and round the over-groomed terrace I'd ride
on a mule, remarkable for its humility,
whose loyalty outran the fastest steed.
The mutual comity of sad smiles,
the camaraderie of beauty shared
meant more to me than any noble name.
My nature was such that I felt at home
with peasant souls who made their home
in Nature, with strong men and women
for whom mere breathing was a work of art –
until. . . Now as a host you're sweeping through
an agent who seems so easily impressed
by upper trappings and marble floors.
Once again the name is on the market,
my replacement soon to be consigned.
Tell her for me to keep her selfhood low,
her personality wrapped in mantled gowns.
Should my portrait hang around, relate
to her the same tale you told your guest.
May the next duchess attempt to thrive
as some gilded knickknack rose. You –
may Neptune rise up and drag you down
into the brewing froth as your seahorse,
heavy with gold, cheaply drowned.
Very impressive, AuntShecky; nice play on the "The Last Duchess" poem, also!
I see how tough is—
a man ages into grace and light,
baby’s breath heaving out
beyond the dry leaves,
prevailing, white and delicately resilient,
waiting for the thunder.
Here, knowing my flowers
are not the proof of rain, I watch
for the ghosts of the great floods
the sun pulls relentlessly,
invisibly into the illusion of blue.
I will reside no doubt in a book,
pressed and graying bones,
the mettle of a poem
slowly fading into print.
Lacking rain, I sought refuge
within the vapor of voice,
mute profusion, sad and fey.
I’ve learned how is the rain—
the sky is not the sky—
the weight of breath makes it fall;
it rises from where I keep my breathing.
March 2009
That is incredibly beautiful, firefangled. I see you met the deadline. I was really hoping for a few more entries, so I'm going to extend the deadline to April 2. Thank you for your patience.
Not too long, but I hope it works. :)
I wake before the sun
This meaningless life
My house is empty
My bed is empty
My heart is empty
Stuck between “just friends”
And awkward conversation
In the saloons and bars
The day’s end
I think about the morrow
Why should I wake?
A failure today
A failure tomorrow
with thanks to John Gardner's most excellent book of the same name. A poor, but heartfelt, tribute.
Grendel
Here is the last hour.
The cave, the darkness,
the stirring of firesnakes:
none of this matters.
The cold hand of the infinite is upon me.
My blood, the burning pain
of what I was, that is no longer,
empties me. I am old with life.
Undone by violence: no one knows what I am.
And never will they.
No shaper to sing my songs,
my victories. No memory, except
the blood lust: demon, man killer,
accursed beast. Entrails dangling from my teeth.
Night-thief, ripping flesh from flesh,
bones, brains, blood, breast.
And yet
I see what they don’t see.
Beneath the monster, a man:
angry, churning, hungry.
Rejected.
Hrothgar: you made me what I am,
as I made you. However brutal I was
you were too. Brothers in bloodshed.
Heroes were born and died in me.
My flesh sustained your flesh,
as your thanes sustained me.
Your kingdom grew around me.
You needed me.
The stain in the darkness,
breaking down doors: chomping on priests,
on men, on children, on whores.
Destroyer of meadhalls.
Destroyer of me.
Go on, claim your victory!
And when peace strangles your tired old kingdom:
mourn me.
Brilliant! But of course you're up against tough competition (see 558).
Hugs!
Whoa!!! Impressive additions to our contest! Now I'm in for it-going to have a lovely, wonderful, tough job of selecting ONE of these as the best. Thank you Kevin and Fifth for joining the fray!
I was not born here,
in this body,
but somehow I wandered in one day,
took a look around and thought
I might as well be here
as anywhere.
I had to learn
how to look out through these eyes.
Frankly, I’d have preferred
to have brown ones,
which might, of course,
have changed the way people looked at me.
So much depends on that,
I’ve found. Wouldn’t you agree?
If only two or three
had seen me as a saint...
But no, they insisted
on seeing me as Me,
which was and is
and always will be
a work in progress....
Thank you for participating, Prince. Very interesting poem...much to ponder here...
My apologies for the seemingly taunting reference to your competition (#558) which was because I was under the impression that your poem was a second entry by Firefangled.Quote:
Originally Posted by TheFifthElement
No worries. Having a poem mistaken for one of firefangled's could only ever be a compliment.Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin