Good evening, my dear
The Firefly
I found you underneath the twisted twigs
Of mother's ancient, high-grown rosemary
And first considered you part of my dream
In which my dreams among the clouds did dance
And turn amidst the stars of summer's glow -
I marveled to find them so close to home.
It was the shrub that told I was near home:
How well I knew its many-needled twigs.
But stranger to my eyes I found the glow
That met me with the scent of rosemary -
My unshod feet cut short their homeward dance
And turned towards what I deemed, as yet, a dream.
But no, no star had fallen from my dream -
My eyes were waking in the night near home
And caught the image of a faery's dance
Between and underneath the fragrant twigs
That grew from ancient roots to rosemary:
An otherworldly, deep, enchanting glow.
And well I knew I had once seen such glow
In two dear eyes that haunted long my dream
But I had buried 'neath the rosemary
When silence, after weeping, filled my home.
How many nights we'd searched amond the twigs
To see what we deemed fallen stars in dance!
No longer four bare feet in nightly dance:
I gaze alone at the entrancing glow.
And yet - I feel as if, between the twigs,
Two eyes gaze back at me out of a dream -
Two eyes that to my heart mean loved home -
Born from one star beneath the rosemary...
I blink - and am alone. The rosemary
Sways in the summer wind - a gentle dance.
Few steps to take, and I shall be back home.
But still there is this one bewitching glow
That fills my heart, and fills my head with dream:
It gyrates yet beneath the fragrant twigs.
I bend down to the twigs of rosemary
Before I leave to dream, and you to dance,
And to your glow I whisper: "Welcome home."
----------
I'm still obsessed with the idea of writing a sestina.
Well - another sestina, really, since, as can be seen above, I did manage to complete one already. But I'm not really happy with it, and I'd like to write one in German, and also I'd like to try my hands at a rhymed sestina, and well. I don't know. I just want to. Maybe it's just because I think that retrogradatio cruciata sounds like a Harry Potter spell.
But I haven't really written any poetry at all since - since like forever. The last stuff I remember was in December.
I shouldn't even still be up; I should be sleeping, or studying, 'cause I've got a stupid exam in the morning and the date for the resit is a date where I'd like to be in Bonn already.
But it was just... this moment right now, when I came home, half-dancing uphill with my shoes off, following a firefly headed for the same lavender brush where I spent too much time I should have spent studying earlier today watching half a dozen beautiful butterflies... was just one of these moments where you know what you're living right now is poetry.
And the moment in which I remembered how I wrote the above-posted sestina almost exactly a year ago.
And a moment of existentialism.
I think I'll just go to bed now. Yes, that seems wise.
I found you underneath the twisted twigs
Of mother's ancient, high-grown rosemary
And first considered you part of my dream
In which my dreams among the clouds did dance
And turn amidst the stars of summer's glow -
I marveled to find them so close to home.
It was the shrub that told I was near home:
How well I knew its many-needled twigs.
But stranger to my eyes I found the glow
That met me with the scent of rosemary -
My unshod feet cut short their homeward dance
And turned towards what I deemed, as yet, a dream.
But no, no star had fallen from my dream -
My eyes were waking in the night near home
And caught the image of a faery's dance
Between and underneath the fragrant twigs
That grew from ancient roots to rosemary:
An otherworldly, deep, enchanting glow.
And well I knew I had once seen such glow
In two dear eyes that haunted long my dream
But I had buried 'neath the rosemary
When silence, after weeping, filled my home.
How many nights we'd searched amond the twigs
To see what we deemed fallen stars in dance!
No longer four bare feet in nightly dance:
I gaze alone at the entrancing glow.
And yet - I feel as if, between the twigs,
Two eyes gaze back at me out of a dream -
Two eyes that to my heart mean loved home -
Born from one star beneath the rosemary...
I blink - and am alone. The rosemary
Sways in the summer wind - a gentle dance.
Few steps to take, and I shall be back home.
But still there is this one bewitching glow
That fills my heart, and fills my head with dream:
It gyrates yet beneath the fragrant twigs.
I bend down to the twigs of rosemary
Before I leave to dream, and you to dance,
And to your glow I whisper: "Welcome home."
----------
I'm still obsessed with the idea of writing a sestina.
Well - another sestina, really, since, as can be seen above, I did manage to complete one already. But I'm not really happy with it, and I'd like to write one in German, and also I'd like to try my hands at a rhymed sestina, and well. I don't know. I just want to. Maybe it's just because I think that retrogradatio cruciata sounds like a Harry Potter spell.
But I haven't really written any poetry at all since - since like forever. The last stuff I remember was in December.
I shouldn't even still be up; I should be sleeping, or studying, 'cause I've got a stupid exam in the morning and the date for the resit is a date where I'd like to be in Bonn already.
But it was just... this moment right now, when I came home, half-dancing uphill with my shoes off, following a firefly headed for the same lavender brush where I spent too much time I should have spent studying earlier today watching half a dozen beautiful butterflies... was just one of these moments where you know what you're living right now is poetry.
And the moment in which I remembered how I wrote the above-posted sestina almost exactly a year ago.
And a moment of existentialism.
I think I'll just go to bed now. Yes, that seems wise.