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The Votarist

PostPosted: Tue May 08, 2007 10:41 am
by Saturn
This is somewhat of a companion piece to an old poem I wrote called Summoned by the goddess which you can find on a previous page. This is somewhat different in tone.

The Votarist

To love is to give
I know that truth;
To you I offer all:
A solemn votarist.
Offerings I make
Though I know
Poor they be.

I'm bent-double,
Bowed in prayer,
Impoverished by
Heavy donations.
Yet all I can give,
All that I can vow
Is never enough.

No priest to guide,
Nor book to teach
The correct path.
Yet blind I lead,
A congregation,
With missionary,
Evangelical zeal.

Your cult I tend
With such care
Life else seems
Sinful and low.
This is pure and
Hallowed, my
Only vocation.

Nor false idol,
Gaudy gold calf,
Or marbled deity
Commands me.
No idol arcane
Has my belief,
Feeds my soul.

No infallibility
Is ever possible,
Even from one
That I serve.
Perfection? Ha!
That way lies
Rash insensibility.

I worship you
I bow to you,
Despite of fault
Because of fault.
Defective maiden
A poor disciple
Serves your heart.
_________

PostPosted: Wed May 09, 2007 11:19 am
by AsphodelElysium
Love, love, love this:

Your cult I tend
With such care
Life else seems
Sinful and low.
This is pure and
Hallowed, my
Only vocation.



I'm curious why you chose to captialize Hallowed or was it just the formatting on the computer? I didn't know if it was meant to have special significance or not.

PostPosted: Thu May 10, 2007 9:44 am
by Saturn
No special significance, all the lines have their first word capitalised.

Thanks for the kind words :P

PostPosted: Fri May 11, 2007 6:15 pm
by dks
Oh...yes...how breathlessly gorgeous--what a profession of love...*swoons* :!:

These are hard hitting to me:

No priest to guide,
Nor book to teach
The correct path.
Yet blind I lead,
A congregation,
With missionary,
Evangelical zeal.

Your cult I tend
With such care
Life else seems
Sinful and low.
This is pure and
Hallowed, my
Only vocation.


And, I agree with AE, these lines are brilliant with regard to tying up the extended metaphor with a whisper of pure beauty:

I worship you
I bow to you,
Despite of fault
Because of fault.
Defective maiden
A poor disciple
Serves your heart.


This poem remined me, for some reason, of that unbelievable scene in The Boxer--where Danny Flynn is holding Maggie and he says, "You still have it." She whispers, "What?" He says into her ear, "My soul." :shock: :(

PostPosted: Fri May 11, 2007 9:49 pm
by Saturn
The lady doth praise too much but I am quite proud of the last stanza if I say so myself :P

PostPosted: Sun May 13, 2007 5:31 am
by AsphodelElysium
You're welcome. :)