Today’s poem is all rhyme-y. Why? Because Adam Callaway keeps asking me to do them. That’s not the real reason, though. I just felt like it today.
It also helps that my poem was inspired by this:
“What’s that?” you say. You’ll just have to read the poem to figure it out. It should be pretty obvious.
Here goes:
“To Lilium
Sweet is Lilium, whose sunset shimmer
quiets a man’s stuttering wayward pipe —
his solemn songs rendered to joyous glimmer —
in the quickened chest of an overripe
soul cast in the dye inflamed with yearning.
Her quiet limbs caress the trembling air
and his fingers shiver as the sojourning
question paddles circles; a doe’s learning
sprouts, gale-wind globes searching to tear
the foundation of doubt from its mooring;
For she draws the melted candle, as Orpheus
mastered Elysium and broke Amore, singing
of Eurydice; her instrument a truss
for his warbling tune, waiting at the gate
to lull Cerberus to the Land of Dreams;
In whose milken hands he rests his fate
and whispers vows — humbled, joyed by the streams
of Euphrosyne’s tears; in whose cheeks shined
Dog-Star twilight and, in Eros, a love enshrined.
For a love that refashions a stubbed taper
and lights a thousand harmonious Orphean tales
smolders love-lost terrors to scorched-earth paper;
and from Heliopolis and ashes, new love prevails.
Reading Time
#NaPoWriMo Entry #8: “To Lilium”
Today’s poem is all rhyme-y. Why? Because Adam Callaway keeps asking me to do them. That’s not the real reason, though. I just felt like it today.
It also helps that my poem was inspired by this:
“What’s that?” you say. You’ll just have to read the poem to figure it out. It should be pretty obvious.
Here goes:
Sweet is Lilium, whose sunset shimmer
quiets a man’s stuttering wayward pipe —
his solemn songs rendered to joyous glimmer —
in the quickened chest of an overripe
soul cast in the dye inflamed with yearning.
Her quiet limbs caress the trembling air
and his fingers shiver as the sojourning
question paddles circles; a doe’s learning
sprouts, gale-wind globes searching to tear
the foundation of doubt from its mooring;
For she draws the melted candle, as Orpheus
mastered Elysium and broke Amore, singing
of Eurydice; her instrument a truss
for his warbling tune, waiting at the gate
to lull Cerberus to the Land of Dreams;
In whose milken hands he rests his fate
and whispers vows — humbled, joyed by the streams
of Euphrosyne’s tears; in whose cheeks shined
Dog-Star twilight and, in Eros, a love enshrined.
For a love that refashions a stubbed taper
and lights a thousand harmonious Orphean tales
smolders love-lost terrors to scorched-earth paper;
and from Heliopolis and ashes, new love prevails.
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