February 17th 2006

Here you can post YOUR OWN poems, prose, music, or art inspired by the 'Muses nine'.

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February 17th 2006

Postby Saturn » Wed May 30, 2007 11:58 pm

Well I've tried to recreate the poem I unfortunately lost a few days ago - this may actually have turned out better than the original :D

I don't know if this is poetry or not, but it's something I've been meaning to write, something gestating within me for a long time.
It's about many things, all real memories but also a kind of emotional journey, the birth of a feeling, of a realisation, the maturing of a mind.

I hesitate to mention Wordsworth's Prelude in the same breathe as this obviously, but the idea behind his great masterpiece spurred me to write something similar, yet humbler in scope, and of course much impaired in its execution, though I have laboured over this much more than any of my more recent shorter poems.

As usual I crave your indulgences for it's metrical, grammatical and poetical errors. :oops:

It may need some revision so don't think you're going mad if you see the odd changes here and there even once it is posted.

February 17th 2006


I remember that day now
Crystal-clear, and fine cut,
Etched precisely, so deep
The lancet can't reach:
Surgery would be useless.

Most days run their course -
Go to their beds. They sleep,
Hide their heads, and die,
Not to see another dawn
But this one lives, thrives
And nourishes my soul.

I was still a boy that day
In the clothes of a man;
Wearing a festival garb,
Clumsy stage make-up.
An actor in a strange play
Unfamiliar with the lines:.
The understudy for a role
Too little for experience,
Too large for ignorance.

I played a young lover,
Like a silent film hero,
Dumb but full of artful,
Convoluted gestures
Of devotion and care.
"Sound and fury..."
I blew to the wind
Trumpeted my hopes
To the high heavens.

I was running careless,
From something I feared,
A hurt too awful to name.
A sweet exhausting pain.
An old injury infected me
Like a parasite, gnawed
My insides almost unseen.

I can't remember why
I came to that place
That one dark day:
All else but moments
Are hazy, and caked
In associations, thick
As the muddy boots
I trudged home with.

I knew only pain,
Only with despair
Could I stomach
The hardest path
I will ever walk.
Happiness couldn't
Ever digest, endure
Such great hardship
I tackled with then.

An hydra held me,
Within it's tentacled,
Its multi-form grasp;
Tossed me like a toy,
A cheap plaything
For a wild beast
To indulge its fill.

My toes perched
Right on the chasm,
Only a boot-length
To a vast eternity -
No dizziness, vertigo
Or fear held me then,
No regret or doubt
Held off my hands.

It was in the eyes
In mine, in yours
My salvation lay.
As watching eclipses
With the naked eye
You had burned me,
Indelibly scarred
Your face, spirit
And heart on me.

I'd crossed a bridge,
Metaphorical, real,
And over the heart.
The old drawbridge
Is pulled up and clear:
No turning back now.
So I let go of fear
Damped the hurt,
Hid well all despair
And made the vow.

My altar was rough
As any Numa made,
My inscription rude,
But earnest in hope,
And in promise rich.
I left a pagan gift,
Heathen libation
To seal the pact
In the only way
I knew how to.


And so it stands
Memorial, proud,
Yet more remote:
The bridge it fell,
Wilderness now
Reclaims its lot,
Engulfing folly;
Green in mouth
Swallowing up
The corruption,
The filth of man
In its vast womb.

But still it stands
And will stand yet
Even as thick vines
Meander, obscure
Into unintelligibility
All trace of words
Its true message
Will never fade
Though the altar
Crumble to ruin
And rot reduce
It all to dust.
_____
Last edited by Saturn on Mon Jun 16, 2008 9:11 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Postby AsphodelElysium » Fri Jun 01, 2007 10:56 pm

Wow...this is some really excellent poetry writing here, Saturn. You have some really powerful stanzas. My particular favorites are stanzas two, three, four, twelve and thirteen. And even more particular than that, two and thirteen. I wish I had wrote them. :oops:

I don't believe the question would enter anyone's mind as to whether or not this is poetry. Don't be so hard on yourself. It takes a lot of work to sustain a long poem like this and you've done it well. :D
"Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But, when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire."
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Postby Saturn » Fri Jun 01, 2007 11:21 pm

It's just its so obscure and personal no-one except me knows what it's really about, and if anyone else did it would be appalling and shocking so maybe obscurity is best when dealing with such things :?
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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Postby AsphodelElysium » Sat Jun 02, 2007 1:00 am

The feelings convey themselves very clearly though. And unless rape and/or murder is involved, I don't think there is anything shocking or appalling about unrequited love or the anguish involved. Its a hazard we all take, you know? The reader may not know the precise circumstances but the overall feeling is very tangible.

This is a fine piece of work, Saturn.
"Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But, when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire."
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