Henry Heritage

Henry Heritage Poems

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The Nemophilist (Sample)

Part 1: Somnolent
From a town of men with calves of iron,
Did labour fulfil the rise and fall,
And boundaries were nested in velvet quilt
Comprised and writhe of vines and brush,
For daily cast was rigor and brute,
And the town’s time was never a-waste
But seclude from mass; did one defect rise:
Twas he who refrained from conform and convention:
Recluse in mind, cursed- struck burden he weld to
No resort or assisting were ever conveyed,
Yet foggy oak could lecture him what mother aborted,
For looming woodlands accepted his flaw;
And shield what wounds the folk would amend:
“Ill, oh ill is he, bless his sake and instability,
What shame had he brought on his own contrary.”

Sickly-bound and free of fear
Nil taste was had for common sense,
What veiled sloth, due inaction was he
Heart of a stubborn trinket- that which
Cried with terse and ill-mannered banter
Banter, banter to end his guise
For he’d long to lay in bays of green
Engulfed in shades of scene and bliss
Far, far apart of social grasp (lone and content)
Such vacant laws would he abide
Bar, subtle infringement hence derive,
From his own adoration of nature, solitude and pain
Veil uncharmed; true comfort he felt
Within clutch of bountiful harness; much
Supplied by the nest of oaks and welkin dew.
What lack of lust and joy of soul;
Befitted what hollow dent ridden with concise.
For he fled the sun-deprived day, to dream of dusky-
Vamps, shallow and nought…pointless thought.
And sap all comfort from these riddles,
til pleasured mind could guard all torment:
And tricky valour and cedar allowed him to implore-
What he so pleased to leak from his swollen head;
On time,3 moons would pass his body
And to this no alert was present back home
Like creased underbrush missed his mount,
More than fellow stalkers cared.
“What sickle heart does he provide! ”
Yet the green path remained thrice trodden.
What law could he abide?

A thousand times, he skipped Sunday;
Oft to laze, scheming barky scriptures
Where subtle spills of muggy drizzle tampered his forehead.
A thousand times, his name was cursed;
A rugged, bloated, ego warped in stigma to dry,
And a remorse self, riddled in insult, damp and rot.

Even once a time in brittle youth;
The child of “no” was scorned to scar
When a boar flailed in strut;
Claiming fear in hearts along the artery,
As others fled with tails behind,
One’s own pride, too disassociate in logic
Entranced by a beast so sublime to eyes
Akin, exotic realism took one unwilled;
Curiosity’s wounds striven, toiling silver onto present.

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