Poetry post! rondeaux redoublé
At least, I think the plural of rondeau is rondeaux. *shrug* Whatever.
So, a couple of months ago, I fell in love with a new poetry form: rondeau redoublé. It's nice and hard, and it turns out that it's even SCA period: it's French and dates to 1526 (thanks, Leah!). Woohoo! Anyway, the upshot of this is that I've now written two. Go, me!
The first one I wrote was on the prompt of "extramural":
Faithful Lies
Outside your picture-perfect picket fence,
we struggle to maintain our dignity:
you call our love immoral, in offense
to family values, and a guarantee
to find ourselves in Hell. Your absentee
compassion has no time for our defense -
it leaves us friendless, for eternity
outside your picture-perfect picket fence.
The hateful laws you pass at our expense
expose your callous inhumanity -
you smile as the injustices commence.
We struggle to maintain our dignity
when facing your unwholesome trinity
of politicians bought, intolerance,
and lies - while whoring Christianity,
you call our love immoral? In offense
to all the Jesus taught, your eloquence
disseminates despair and cruelty:
the poisoned hearts your ad campaigns dispense
to family. Values and a “guarantee
of Heaven” would protest your innocence
of such maliciousness, but unity
has never been on your agenda, since
we always find our sexuality
outside your picture.
*
The second one I wrote was on the prompt of "music":
Sight-Singing
I must now see the world through your songs, corazón,
for my eyes are both blinded by age and decay.
Your melodious voice paints the places you’ve known,
each a leitmotif wholly unique. Every day,
you sing sunrise in Lydian, bright as the hay
in the summer-sweet meadows before it is mown.
If my sight is the price of your music, I’ll pay:
I must now see the world through your songs, corazón,
and the world is more beautiful when I am shown
how the melody runs through the wind on the bay,
through the sun on my face, and resounds in my bone,
for my eyes are both blinded by age and decay.
The harmonic progression of time cannot stay
its relentless pursuit of a cadence - you’ve grown
in a counterpoint theme I can hear when you play -
your melodious voice paints the places you’ve known.
Every sandstone formation carved out like a throne
is a regal processional, while a soufflé
rising golden and fragrant is jazz on trombone,
each a leitmotif wholly unique. Every day
brings a musical sight, like a kite being flown
in a wind-ruffled sky, or a lonely Monet
hanging dusty, forlorn and forgotten. My own
consolation in darkness is music, the way
I must now see the world.
So, a couple of months ago, I fell in love with a new poetry form: rondeau redoublé. It's nice and hard, and it turns out that it's even SCA period: it's French and dates to 1526 (thanks, Leah!). Woohoo! Anyway, the upshot of this is that I've now written two. Go, me!
The first one I wrote was on the prompt of "extramural":
Faithful Lies
Outside your picture-perfect picket fence,
we struggle to maintain our dignity:
you call our love immoral, in offense
to family values, and a guarantee
to find ourselves in Hell. Your absentee
compassion has no time for our defense -
it leaves us friendless, for eternity
outside your picture-perfect picket fence.
The hateful laws you pass at our expense
expose your callous inhumanity -
you smile as the injustices commence.
We struggle to maintain our dignity
when facing your unwholesome trinity
of politicians bought, intolerance,
and lies - while whoring Christianity,
you call our love immoral? In offense
to all the Jesus taught, your eloquence
disseminates despair and cruelty:
the poisoned hearts your ad campaigns dispense
to family. Values and a “guarantee
of Heaven” would protest your innocence
of such maliciousness, but unity
has never been on your agenda, since
we always find our sexuality
outside your picture.
*
The second one I wrote was on the prompt of "music":
Sight-Singing
I must now see the world through your songs, corazón,
for my eyes are both blinded by age and decay.
Your melodious voice paints the places you’ve known,
each a leitmotif wholly unique. Every day,
you sing sunrise in Lydian, bright as the hay
in the summer-sweet meadows before it is mown.
If my sight is the price of your music, I’ll pay:
I must now see the world through your songs, corazón,
and the world is more beautiful when I am shown
how the melody runs through the wind on the bay,
through the sun on my face, and resounds in my bone,
for my eyes are both blinded by age and decay.
The harmonic progression of time cannot stay
its relentless pursuit of a cadence - you’ve grown
in a counterpoint theme I can hear when you play -
your melodious voice paints the places you’ve known.
Every sandstone formation carved out like a throne
is a regal processional, while a soufflé
rising golden and fragrant is jazz on trombone,
each a leitmotif wholly unique. Every day
brings a musical sight, like a kite being flown
in a wind-ruffled sky, or a lonely Monet
hanging dusty, forlorn and forgotten. My own
consolation in darkness is music, the way
I must now see the world.