Something For The Classicists
I'm not sure why I wrote this. I'm supposed to be writing love poetry, but this doesn't seem to fit the parameters set in the course. It just wanted to be written, I guess. Anyway:
Psyche to Eros
Do you think of me, then, waiting on the rock?
It was cold – the wind bellied my red mantle, embroidered
with suns and wheels and dandelions. Their
warmth was only pictures; my bare feet bled
on the ragged stones. From the dark hills cold glints
of trumpets bid farewell: they were leaving me, though
my mother had clung like lichen clings, had wept
like water gushing from blank granite.
A beautiful sacrifice, I.
In this dark place – all softness, as a scrap
of thistle-down, as the fluff
of a wild-cat nursing kits – my eyes
are shut with your kisses, your murmuring
willow-voice all I hear. I drink you,
as night drinks blindness from a bowl.
Ah, love,
I dreamed that I married a falcon,
and slept in his feather-soft nest in the cliff
but I looked in his eyes,
sun-yellow,
and knowing me, he fled.
I might travel the hills to find that bird,
and cut my feet on the rocks,
and wear the wind for a mantle.
Until I see you,
you will never know.
As I finished writing it about an hour ago, I'm still not sure if it's good or not. I point-blank refuse to gloss who Eros and Psyche are. You are on the Internet. If you don't know: look it up.
Hope you like it, anyway.
Psyche to Eros
Do you think of me, then, waiting on the rock?
It was cold – the wind bellied my red mantle, embroidered
with suns and wheels and dandelions. Their
warmth was only pictures; my bare feet bled
on the ragged stones. From the dark hills cold glints
of trumpets bid farewell: they were leaving me, though
my mother had clung like lichen clings, had wept
like water gushing from blank granite.
A beautiful sacrifice, I.
In this dark place – all softness, as a scrap
of thistle-down, as the fluff
of a wild-cat nursing kits – my eyes
are shut with your kisses, your murmuring
willow-voice all I hear. I drink you,
as night drinks blindness from a bowl.
Ah, love,
I dreamed that I married a falcon,
and slept in his feather-soft nest in the cliff
but I looked in his eyes,
sun-yellow,
and knowing me, he fled.
I might travel the hills to find that bird,
and cut my feet on the rocks,
and wear the wind for a mantle.
Until I see you,
you will never know.
As I finished writing it about an hour ago, I'm still not sure if it's good or not. I point-blank refuse to gloss who Eros and Psyche are. You are on the Internet. If you don't know: look it up.
Hope you like it, anyway.
posted by theamazingcatherine | 9:00 am
1 Comments:
"This is beautifully written--the sounds, the descriptions, the wonderful comparisons, e.g. 'wear the wind for a mantle' and 'as the night drinks blindness'...
"This is a retelling from her point of view--and that is all... If that's all you wanted, then you have succeeded. But is that all you want--a retelling based only on a shift in perspective? (Okay, 'knowing me / he fled' does take it to a new place, but still.)...
"I think you need to anchor this poem in place--in the here and now... If you contemporize, it will be a more touching poem, will be a use of the myth, a transformation of it--not a retelling. As a retelling, however, it is successful." (Doctor Bryan Walpert)
I think I prefer it as a retelling, to be honest. I can see this big gaping pit-trap labelled "make it mean something" and I really want to avoid it.
Post a Comment
<< Home