Troth is I, thy most flight-happy captive, spite-having,
Who can lose a heart to you (beats, that is, if truthfully youth
Has what for loss), but you, my mishap perhaps, wait.
Thy inner cavity thus metronomically replete withal, and
My members removed to move in you withal, and
Our "something" become as stagnation within,
I feel: dry heat, a fresh weal, live bones now cracked steel,
Shared skeleton and flesh fresh mine, I find
That pulmonary sack filling a puissant lack, is
Now first to pain, gnarled, fired, and slain
Ludicrous, lavish solution to a lost life.
Theft? No. I think to thieve, a gift won't do.
My organ, our chest, our life, my grist.
Be, beauty, a better bride.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
The line that sticks in my mind is this one: "Theft? No. I think to thieve, a gift won't do."
ReplyDeleteBecause of course something given cannot be stolen. And yet you riff on the ideas of hearts being stolen and music and cyborgs and love and loss, all in a tightly wrapped packet of words.
I cannot speak to the emotion, but I've caught a glimpse of it in what you've written.
We're reading Beowulf in class now. This is, I think, a better way to poem in English.
ReplyDeleteI didn't caesura and I didn't formalize my assonance and consonance, but that's what I tried to do. It came out oddly like a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem (essentially my fav. poet)?
My favorite line (if I'm allowed to do such things to my own poetry) is
I feel: dry heat, a fresh weal, live bones now cracked steel.
I think that one deserves putting other places.
I like that line, too. (It makes sense that that's the line you put on Twitter.) And, yes, it does have a very Hopkins feel to it, now that you mention it.
ReplyDeleteI thought of Hopkins before I read the comments, so, bravo. Also I thought of this one: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45589/they-flee-from-me
ReplyDeleteBut yours is better. Wyatt is basically 1500s Emo kid poetry.