- Non-Erotic Poetry
- After the Pyre
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Solemnities performed,
the wood piled up,
the ecstasy of flames
all through the night.
The fire makers left
long since. And now
the night is graying in the east
I find myself sitting on
a nearby log, tired,
tired... hands, feet, face
grey with ashes and
my white robes smeared, the heat
burnt deep into my skin –
sitting down at the wreckage,
the falling fragments, carved
wood well beyond
recognition, wondering
a little sadly how
this fire's elation changed
before the dawn.
- COMMENTS
DawnJover 11 years agoFor good? Shall I say it? ... Okay, I won't! :))
To the poem, then. The priest ("white robes") wondering what's the point of the ceremony? That's a sad thing, to come to question what before was certain, particularly if that certainty had become your bedrock.
twelveooneover 11 years agoto be honest, not really my type
Solemnities performed, the ecstasy of flames/my white robes smeared, as if some major change has happened from #1, maybe this is not part of the series.I am not here to talk about poetry per se. Yours are good, a shame the poobahs of formalism are not here. But, if anyone can generate this much thought-out poetry, surely that person can generate a bit of thought-out criticism. Your comments are extremely lightweight, lighter than Tazz's, what gives?
All of your poetry is very linear, formal and the language not especially exiting, as such I have five centuries of better to chose from, and as such I have a tendency to see where you are going with it, now if any tricks with metre are being performed I invite you to go to the threads and illustrate them.
Best and 5ed of course.
