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Some mornings my mind
Is like the women of Troy atremble
In their trembling bowers
As the Greeks unveiled ruddy limbs
To haul babe and bodice back
To shores lined with poppy-canvassed
Tents and giant ashen ships
Under sun the yellow of wild-cat eyes:
What a heathen burden is writing
Bartering cinder for chaff and bone
Like the frontispiece of Prospero's
Engulfed tomes, flames ivy upwards,
Hoping that an overgrown glance
From a blindly-laurelled coy maiden
Will enflame us to retrieve our
Dented shields we harbored beneath
In youthful days like errant knights-
Girls with blushes like northern lights:
Again to see heaven-cleaved creatures
With sylph-tender teeth lulling
Lame-footed children to chaste sleep
As the meadows and stammering trees
Lend their vain breezes to line
The coats of sonnets -
The ebbing specters of debaucheries
Called evenings and the yawns a prayer
To the frozen god of opiated sleep
Who visits in selfish terror, ingrate halo,
An eclipse of withered root, I alone,
But when did the sun lose its charioteer?
Fill for me, my love, high a claw-foot tub
In which I may be bathed or drowned.
Dreux Moreland
| Submitted Date |
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Tuesday, August 19, 2008 |
| Submitted Date |
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Tuesday, August 19, 2008 |
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Comments about this poem (V.
by
Dreux Moreland
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Goldy Locks (8/22/2008 9:57:00 PM)
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a fantastical collage of images, fastened by structure.
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JOSEPH POEWHIT (8/19/2008 10:14:00 AM)
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Got a real swirling feeling reading this poem.
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