[x]

OrpheusDarkness encompassed me; high-vaulting fire
Leapt and burnt the vision from my gaze
But though I could not see, I strummed my lyre
Until the music swept away the haze
And I could stumble onwards through the mire.
Now I strum no more. What use are lays?
Save to remind me of my lost desire
That I betrayed--let silence fill my days!
For I, whose song once moved the gods to weep
No longer can make melodies from woe--
No dissonance expresses pain so deep
And no music can be as beautiful

As that which I have lost. Let others come
And fill the void with noise--I will not strum.

the eyepatch and the handcuffs     his hands have promised
     to wipe off every fingerprint
     your last lover left on you

     he has sworn he will
     wear gloves, when he needs to,
     and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes

     "this side up"
     and "fragile"

     and you have sworn
     you will try to let him

     i hear your bodies whispering these things to each ot

for onceCold

blackempty

like the cavern where crimson vellum once resided

Drenched in reticence,
your empty blue eyes do nothing
but freeze the blood in these veins

surrounded by phantoms,
i lie in the dark next to your fading silhouette
between sheets that hold so many memories,
they are empty,

like the chestnut eyes that bore into yours

And as the rain falls harder
as it falls faster

washing down the streets
through deep alleys,
down endless roads,

for

once

just

once

i pray it takes me with

Star SwallowerShe's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.

Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throw

the hungry look...the hungry look,

the wolves
weaving through
and around
the gully of your throat like wraiths,

we can feel you rusting, lost one;

i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet

and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,

but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,

and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;

where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated

where you
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say &lsq

a ribcage drenched in dust i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?

i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but

you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.

you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak

and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter

The Lost PianistThe Lost Pianist

Tears reminisce mahogany boxed memories,
Of ecstatic crescendos and tearful diminuendos.
For deep in eternal sadness lies the lost pianist,
Who once dreamt of glorious symphonies.

As he caresses the goddess of the piano,
She moans of rhythmic joy and pleasure,
Executing works that rival the Siren's song,
Echoing the lost voices of her past masters.

But in time's command, their hearts went astray.
Each lying in their own pool of heartfelt miseries.
While he walks asunder, away from melodic Eden,
She beckons to him, yearning to be loved.

Her sorrowful notes whisper his name,
When he contemplates sweet nostalgia.

WakeWake

to gather friends, family, and spouses
around that humble opposite of the Christmas tree,
the embalmed corpse.

It's brilliant to be there
in the first place, to acknowledge
the importance of passing -

and better still to call the thing a wake,
as though there is hope in the hollow home
and shining windows,

in the trees and the wind and the roaring night,
that something may happen
to undo slow deaths

and restore old sight.

AntiquatedYour rose petal hips
Will always demur
To your ivory lace slip,
The stockings climbing
High on calves and thighs
Like a garden trellis
Near the blooming soul
Between your open legs,
The place where he
Could love you the most

Into the LightThe moon tonight is, simply, a white note
adrift, spinning. It patiently tracks the breeze
on the edge of genesis, floating in motes

               of static. On the surface, it seems at ease.
               Light filters through oak leaves and coats
               its thrall, the summer heat's slow weave

through the river's margins to the throat
of the sea. Small fish leap up to tease
the moon tonight. Simply, th

Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.

Holiday TableauCrushed tinsel, sunken
spirits littering
the melancholy
atmosphere of the
holiday after-
glow - It does not shine.

Torn garland, empty
bottles strewn across
abandoned party
rooms, reminiscent
of the previous
night's festivities.

Colorful wrappings,
packaging tape, bags
stuffed with boxes and
tissue paper - trash.
Re-gifted rejects
left behind, thoughtless.

Filled coffee cups the
morning after - warmth
to replace fading
cheer. Resolutions
revised, for the fast
approaching new year.

the back of your head against my washed pillowcaseI find it
disconcerting
that
you are the King
of my own Head
& that I am
subjugated
by my own
temptation

My bones, your
welcome mats,
cushioned
to your insatiable
satisfaction

--

I find this
discomforting,
your constant
rebirths in my
libido, despite
three years of
silent therapy,
false recovery
& worshipping
the wrong gods

you are the best muse
for struggling artists
everywhere & worst
case of the bubonic plague
since the bubonic plague

--

I find you
disenchanted
in the middle
of any where,
peeling flesh,
lulling sullen
sirensongs at
3AM

I shot a flock
of phoenixes
& ate Adam's
poison apple

The SculptorBefore he would have harvested a tree,
hacked off its limbs,
skinned it,
torn it from the earth,
shaved one by one its cells - its outer core,
until it was what he believed it was,

no more a tree.

Wiser, he walks deep in to the wood,
underneath a forest giant he stops,
looks up in to the leafy branches, sighs,
climbs and sheds his tears upon its boughs.

the trouble isi'd like life to be
quiet and lovely
like distant church-bells
chiming through snow,
muted by the smell of
an old book and the
feel of a fire warming
me into my chair, and
a mug of tea, steeping
the moment in hushed
gratitude, easily in reach.

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More from *williamszm

Sonnet XVI: Forget ThemForget the flowers flushing 'gainst the ground
Forget the bird-song spilling from the trees
Don't gaze enraptured at the world around--
Your softened eyes, wind-swept by summer's breeze
And hair caught in the sunlight that surrounds
Your face, fresh from the flush of shadowed leaves
Only remind me of what you have found
Within this world, ignoring all my pleas
To be with me instead--to look at me.
Remember me, whom you should love the most
And I am not a bloom and not a tree
Do not compare us with such flighty boasts

But put your paper down, your pen away
And come inside--please come inside, and stay.

SpringtimeIn the gardens she walked, wand'ring
Through the grasses bright with blossoms
'Neath the trees and leaves and branches--
I was watching from my window,

Dreaming of a springtime coming
When I might go down to meet her;
Open wide the door to greet her;
Join her in her aimless wand'ring.

Now the blooms are pale and bloodless--
Veins in tatters as the leaves rip--
And the grasses green and flowing
Are dried wisps, alone and lonely.

Now the path with needles littered
Is untrod, and in the dust there
Nothing stirs, no footsteps linger:
She no longer comes to wander.

I am young and fear to find her
Wand'ring in the wild weather
Whe

I have done what I could.They watched a dying horse; still crawling on
With oozing scabs upon its beaten knees--
A child cried, entrapped within the throng
That would not stir, but stared with blank unease.

They saw a dying boy; a dying girl
Bleeding into the mortar of the street
And some leapt from the crowd; their flag unfurled--
But they met bleak and terrible defeat.

Against this raging tide of human hate
I dipped my fingers in its wild swell
And tried to turn it from its turbid fate--
I hope the ripples someone may have felt--

Someone, maybe, who'll stand when flood-gates break
And rushing foam sweeps homes into the sea
For they will feel the brush

Sonnet XIVI don't think I would choose you, if I could
Control the people jailed within my heart--
But I cannot--I do not have the art
Of picking locks, nor strength to shatter wood
And iron doors. Sometimes I think I should
Leave you there to rot; let the rats dart
About your broken corpse. Then we could part
And only bones would linger, and I would
Be free of such inmates, who need such care.
But I am not so cruel, and know my soul
Would overthrow me if I sought this goal
And I know that my heart would cry if where
You once had dwelt, the cells were clean and bare.
No--I must keep the cells of my heart full.

AchillesWhy do you think I care that others die?
So too will I--I will not last the war;
But I want death and glory, nothing more,
And that is why I will never comply
When he tells me to fight; for why should I?
He stole my prize, now begs I win his war--
Well, I will not! He should have thought before
He dared to try and shame a prince so high.

No, all my friends and I are quite content
To linger here in leisure while he fights
And laugh at each defeat; at every loss.
So tell him that I will not leave this tent
Until he gives me back what's mine by rights
For I will have renown, at any cost.

To a RebecRebec; mewling, love-strung instrument
Singing, answer me: how were you used?
Bawling dances out over a crowd,
Wailing wares across a crowded street?
Sweetly, sweetly, gently sing to me.

Let me run a fingernail along
Splitting wood and fraying gut-strings splayed
Taunt between your bridge and tuning pegs.
Whole and scooped out from a tree-trunk grave
Sweetly, sweetly. Gently let me see.

Dancing 'round the hall, they heard you cry.
Did you see their feather-glimmer masks
Or their curling hair, their satin threads
Strung in flowers? Of their dancing there
Sweetly, sweetly, gently sing to me.

Sing for me, who cannot sing a tune

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Eurydice

by *williamszm, Apr 20, 2012, 11:05:18 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Traditional Fixed Forms

His voice enveloped me, and I became
Myself again--I heard it in the song:
A mordent on a note he held too long;
A stutter in his voice. I heard my name
In these and felt a happiness the same
As when I saw him first. Oh, I had longed
To hear him sing again, but this last song--
It was so beautiful. And it remains
The best of human works, though none shall hear
Its sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tune
Through vast arpeggios and Death's expanse
Except the dead. It will not disappear
'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--
Such music must be worth a backwards glance.

Eurydiceby *williamszm

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Traditional Fixed Forms

A sonnet! This is a companion piece to my Orpheus Sonnet, from the prospective of his wife, Eurydice.

It is written in petrarchan sonnet form, and was a bit of a struggle. I had a difficult time getting all the ideas I had about how she would respond into the poem--that's why sonnets are so challenging (and fun)!

Anyway, some questions:
Any awkward meter/rhyme/punctuation/grammar?
How did you like the turn? Too obvious?
What about the last line? I originally had "I know this must be worth a backwards glance." Which do you prefer?
Your opinions on the Eurydice presented here?
How does this fit with Orpheus sonnet, if you care to read that one as well?

And other comments/critiques/feedback are always welcome.

Thank you again!

(for twr: [link])

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-02-04

Eurydice by ~williamszm Suggester Writes: In this haunting sonnet, the author brings a tragic heroine to vivid life ( Suggested by =LadyofGaerdon and Featured by ^Beccalicious )

Critique by =LadyofGaerdon Jun 23, 2012, 7:09:27 PM

I love this. You've really brought her character to life and explained her motivations. I definitely prefer "Such music must be worth a backwards glance." It's the perfect ending. I quite enjoyed the turn.

I didn't notice any awkwardness - indeed, the flow is quite perfect, I think.

The Eurydice presented here is very much how I would picture her - sad, regretful, but still very much - alive can't be the right word, obviously, but she does feel dynamic.

I read the Orpheus sonnet first, and I like this one better. That's probably just because I relate better to Eurydice. Her voice is just so strong here. But I quite enjoyed the Orpheus sonnet as well, and I think they go wonderfully together. I'm glad you wrote both.

What do you think?

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Critique by ~CelestialMemories May 5, 2012, 6:21:54 PM

I will answer your questions first and then give a complete summary of my opinion on the poem.

Any awkward meter/rhyme/punctuation/grammar?
I did not notice any awkward meter and the rhyme was very surprising! I actually liked the style that you used, something I had never seen before. The only problem I had, as someone else has critiqued, was the line “and Death’s expanse/ Except the dead” it kind of made me lose the rhythm I was reading with and as it has been said before it seems pretty redundant.
How did you like the turn? Too obvious?
I really liked the turn that you used. It was expected and obvious in a sense, but by being familiar with the myth there was not much you could really add towards the end that would still fit with the myth and be a surprise.
What about the last line? I originally had "I know this must be worth a backwards glance." Which do you prefer?
I absolutely loved the last line! It gave me the idea that “He is such a beautiful musician, why can’t Hades just let one look slide and let him have Eurydice.” I say with that idea in my head, keep with the line that you have written there. It’s very powerful.
Your opinions on the Eurydice presented here?
Eurydice is one of my favorite characters in all of Greek mythology, and very rarely do I see works from her point of view. Yes, Orpheus writing about her, or other narratives, but never Eurydice first-person works. What I loved about this Eurydice is that you made her very familiar with musical terms, many times Orpheus is just the knowledgeable one when it comes to music. I was pleasantly surprised.
How does this fit with Orpheus sonnet, if you care to read that one as well?
I really enjoyed the different perspectives that these sonnets presented. While Orpheus’ piece is simply of his trek through The Underworld and his sadness Eurydice actually claims how beautiful his music is and how it brought her back to life. While Orpheus curses the fact that he looked back, Eurydice criticizes the punishment—for why couldn’t that beautiful music provide just one little slip up?

This is an excellent poem! As soon as I read the title, I knew I had to click it and read it. And I was pleasantly surprised! This was so beautiful, and matched with the Orpheus piece, they can once again be brought together to form one of the most beautiful couples of Greek mythology! As a musician myself, I especially loved the musical terms you had incorporated within the work. You did an excellent job capturing this one moment from two different perspectives and two different emotions. I loved this.