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40 deviations
Stars shall not mark your devotion,
the trees shall not bend to your voice
and shells you caress from the ocean
are silent to why you rejoice--

but under the stars you shine brighter
and deep in the forests you grow
still fairer and wiser and kinder
no matter if anyone knows.
From childhood
Sometimes I end up writing shorter poems, so here is one of them. It's just two stanzas, but I (hope?) they're reasonably effective. Let me know what you think!
No draft of wellspring draws
the same effusive sigh
as wildflowers on the grass
when windstorms fly
in violent, happy, gusts
through speckled shoots of blooms
and cattail reeds bent over banks
cut deep with clouding plumes.

I feel in weathered breaths
this sudden shock of spring:
then drops of rain; your parted hair
to which they cling,
and suddenly the flush
of overburdened clouds
all rushing to the drier ground
to weep their desperate joy aloud.

The dampened scent of sweet
enthralling gentle flowers
enraptured in the air,
weighed low from bowers
of starlit blossom trees
now settles on your skin
and draws between your dusted touch
to cloud the rushing blood within.

I drink of clouded wells
deep in the draining earth
where water tastes of blood
and then--of birth.
A storm in springtime
Rain is my favorite part of spring, and of summer. Especially when it corresponds to lowered temperatures.

Anyway, enjoy this reasonably short poem! As always, critiques/criticisms/comments are much appreciated. :)
Now I am toiling in a sea of ruin
against the rush of waves, and tearing grasp
of algae underneath the clouding froth
and battered up against the cracking rocks
I reach and find my finger-tips are torn

and every bulwark that I build is lost
in shattered spars, and iron nails all scraped
on beaten stone, and splintered wood. They fall
to rust amongst a sand of crumpled shells.

I build and build and all is swept away
into the raging sea; into the fray
of shipwreck sores on putrefying reefs
where long-lipped fishes float, and spotted tails
of swaying eels decay. An octopus

crawls deeper in the darkness of his cave.
I try to swim; the salt keeps me afloat
but every breath is burning from the spray.

When wailing waves recede, and drenching hail
melts back into the surf, I will reclaim
the rough and ragged grip of weathered shore
beneath my slippered feet, and I will find
some warmth beneath my worsted-wool dyed cap
and I will swim until the fish remind
me of myself, and me of them. Their scales

will flash the rising sun in every shock
of sudden leap. When desperate storms disperse
I will dive down to scrape a shard of shell
into an eating-knife, and I will trail
the birds back to their rainstorm drinking-wells.

And when the night disturbs the rush of day
I will begin to build, and this time hope
that every arch of spar will somehow stay.
The heart of a steamboat
I finally finished Toilers of the Sea! Hugo is a big fav, so I'm glad I'm making progress through his works. Next up is Notre Dame.

Anyway, this poem is obviously inspired by the sea as Hugo describes it. I went for blank verse, and I hope you enjoy! Comments/critiques are always appreciated. :)
His uncle stepped away, and slowly sighed
“Gawain,” he said, “I don’t know what to say—
You tell me that you wish that you had died,

That fear of death has led you to betray
Your honor and the oaths you once had sworn—“
He paused, and looked down where his nephew stayed

Head bent over his hands—a ring adorned
In gold, and cut with Orkney’s royal seal
Lay there before him, sunlit-streaked and warm

Upon the wooden table. Arthur kneeled
Beside his silent nephew, took the ring
And said, “Gawain, you tell me that you feel

As if you failed yourself, and me, your king
But that cannot be true, for you are here
Alive. You said you told me everything:

The reason for your quest—how you so feared
My death, that you would rather die instead
And yet, as with each day your death drew near,

You shied away from such an end. You said
You walked through empty woods, and forded streams,
And wandered on long, lonely paths that led

Beyond our earthly world, to stranger dreams.
Then you came back—with such apologies!
My nephew, I must say this failure seems

To me, less failure than a victory
For see, you are alive—you have returned
How can this be defeat? It cannot be.”

But Gawain shook his head, and sharply turned
Away from where his uncle’s gentle eyes
Beseeched him take forgiveness back, un-earned.

So Arthur stood. He said, “My nephew, rise:
I tell you that your honor is not less
Perhaps not more; but then, your honor lies

So far beyond the ken of all the rest—
Indeed, you took a task that none else dared
Although it seemed a doomed and feckless quest.

You proved that, at the last, you truly cared
For life more than for honor formed from games;
Myself, I am just glad that you were spared

And do not know who could, faced with the same,
Choose otherwise. Gawain, you must believe
In this there is no censure, nor no blame.

But still Gawain was silent—and Arthur grieved.
Defense of Gawain (IV. The King)
So we're skipping a section of my long poem, the Defense of Gawain. I may cut it permanently, or I may just need to edit it a bit more. But I thought I might as well post section IV while I do so!

Let me know how you like it, especially if you've read the other two parts. I'm especially interested in any thoughts on how Arthur comes across, especially in contrast to Gareth (our speaker of the first part) or the court (our speaker of the second). The last section, of course, will be titled "The Queen."

The other parts are: I. Gareth and II. Camelot.

Thanks again!


williamszm's Profile Picture
M. W.
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I'm a university student studying music.

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xXI-Feel-InfiniteXx Featured By Owner May 4, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the fave :heart:
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For adding me to your devWatch! :heart:
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You've been featured on my blog:la: Come check it out if you'd like. :heart:
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