O muse I pray you fill my barren chest
so I may puff my torso up with wind
and pour a drooping poppy’s strain depressed
before the bloom with heavy head down pinned.
Let owl songs that guide a rusty knife
towards suicide be new endowed in me
so I may use a death to eek a life,
be ripe with a rich green and potpourri,
and hang like a dead note on bathroom walls
that chokes out feces with a harsh perfume.
Like an unpapered sadness in the stall,
let me reign higher than the flushing spume.
I know there’s nothing divine in your light,
but do not suffer me a tail end’s blight.
I love this one, you really managed to stick to your topic and the language is beautiful. Better luck next time.
Oops, just realized this is in Mild Critique, some notes below:
(06-26-2015, 05:06 PM)Brownlie Wrote: O muse I pray you fill my barren chest
so I may puff my torso up with wind Good description of pride.
and pour a drooping poppy’s strain depressed
before the bloom with heavy head down pinned.
Let owl songs that guide a rusty knife
towards suicide be new endowed in me
so I may use a death to eek a life, Owl songs is a beautiful way to indicate night.
be ripe with a rich green and potpourri, I stumbled on the meter here.
and hang like a dead note on bathroom walls
that chokes out feces with a harsh perfume.
Like an unpapered sadness in the stall,
let me reign higher than the flushing spume. The meter reads a bit off in these two lines but "unpapered sadness" is grand.
I know there’s nothing divine in your light,
but do not suffer me a tail end’s blight.
Hope this helps, though I can think of some other remedies.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
(06-28-2015, 10:30 PM)ellajam Wrote: I love this one, you really managed to stick to your topic and the language is beautiful. Better luck next time.
Oops, just realized this is in Mild Critique, some notes below:
(06-26-2015, 05:06 PM)Brownlie Wrote: O muse I pray you fill my barren chest
so I may puff my torso up with wind Good description of pride.
and pour a drooping poppy’s strain depressed
before the bloom with heavy head down pinned.
Let owl songs that guide a rusty knife
towards suicide be new endowed in me
so I may use a death to eek a life, Owl songs is a beautiful way to indicate night.
be ripe with a rich green and potpourri, I stumbled on the meter here.
and hang like a dead note on bathroom walls
that chokes out feces with a harsh perfume.
Like an unpapered sadness in the stall,
let me reign higher than the flushing spume. The meter reads a bit off in these two lines but "unpapered sadness" is grand.
I know there’s nothing divine in your light,
but do not suffer me a tail end’s blight.
Hope this helps, though I can think of some other remedies.
I appreciate the comments, I think you pointed out some good metrical frailties above. As far as the owl, I think it was often a symbol of death and what-not. Take this stanza from Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene where an owl is hanging out in front of Despair's Cave.
Ere long they come, where that same wicked wight
His dwelling has, low in an hollow cave, Farre underneath a craggie clift ypight, Darke, dolefull, drearie, like a greedy grave, That still for carrion carcases doth crave: On top whereof aye dwelt the ghastly Owle, Shrieking his balefull note, which ever drave Far from that haunt all other chearefull fowle; And all about it wandring ghostes did waile and howle.
-- and then a few stanzas down --
His garment nought but many ragged clouts,
With thornes together pind and patched was, The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts; And him beside there lay upon the gras A drearie corse, whose life away did pas, All wallowed in his owne yet luke-warme blood, That from his wound yet welled fresh alas; In which a rustie knife fast fixed stood, And made an open passage for the gushing flood.
Thanks again (especially if you managed to choke down the Spenser).
I enjoyed it. There's a benefit to being less well read than some, everything old is new again.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
(06-26-2015, 05:06 PM)Brownlie Wrote: O muse I pray you fill my barren chest
so I may puff my torso up with wind
and pour a drooping poppy’s strain depressed
before the bloom with heavy head down pinned.
Let owl songs that guide a rusty knife let songs of owls that guide a rusty knife
towards suicide be new endowed in me to suicide be new endowed in me
so I may use a death to eek a life,
be ripe with a rich green and potpourri,
and hang like a dead note on bathroom walls
that chokes out feces with a harsh perfume. faeces?
Like an unpapered sadness in the stall,
let me reign higher than the flushing spume.
I know there’s nothing divine in your light,
but do not suffer me a tail end’s blight.
(06-26-2015, 05:06 PM)Brownlie Wrote: O muse I pray you fill my barren chest
so I may puff my torso up with wind
and pour a drooping poppy’s strain depressed
before the bloom with heavy head down pinned.
Let owl songs that guide a rusty knife let songs of owls that guide a rusty knife
towards suicide be new endowed in me to suicide be new endowed in me
so I may use a death to eek a life,
be ripe with a rich green and potpourri,
and hang like a dead note on bathroom walls
that chokes out feces with a harsh perfume. faeces?
Like an unpapered sadness in the stall,
let me reign higher than the flushing spume.
I know there’s nothing divine in your light,
but do not suffer me a tail end’s blight.
...but what the hell. Lovin' it.
Best,
tectak
Thanks for taking a look,
Owl might be ow-ul or oul or something else, the second line you pointed out had too many syllables, and apparently feces has a different British spelling (faeces). Go figure.
I love the two-syllabled 'patched', 'welled', and 'fixed' above.
The 16th century wasn't all bad.
Off topic? You be the judge:
The image here is a plate from The Image of Irelande by John Derrick (1581)
which shows the chief of the Mac Sweynes seated at dinner and being entertained
by a bard, a harper, and two other entertainers on the far right. They are braigetóirí
(professional farters).
A piece by Anatoly Liberman on the etymology of 'Fart' (which contains the above plate
as an illustration) can be found here.
i used to know a lotta stuff, but i still have eight cats
(07-01-2015, 01:37 AM)rayheinrich Wrote: I love the two-syllabled 'patched', 'welled', and 'fixed' above.
The 16th century wasn't all bad.
Off topic? You be the judge:
The image here is a plate from The Image of Irelande by John Derrick (1581)
which shows the chief of the Mac Sweynes seated at dinner and being entertained
by a bard, a harper, and two other entertainers on the far right. They are braigetóirí
(professional farters).
A piece by Anatoly Liberman on the etymology of 'Fart' (which contains the above plate
as an illustration) can be found here.
That was a pretty good article, and it suggests that there are some bigger experts than me on flatulence, or the word for a clenched fart "fisting." Also, collywobbles deserves an honorable mention here. Yet, the article did not touch on the idiomatic development of farting as in "old fart." However, in lieu of the article, I present a famous example of literary farting that children are often forced to read. This one's from The Miller's Tale.
This Nicholas anon leet fle a fart,
As greet as it had been a thonder-dent,
That with the strook he was almoost yblent;
And he was redy with his iren hoot,
And Nicholas amydde the ers he smoot,
Of gooth the skyn an hande brede aboute,
The hoote kultour brende so his toute,
And for the smert he wende for to dye.
As he were wood, for wo he gan to crye,
"Help! Water! Water! Help for Goddes herte!"
which translates into the following:
This Nicholas just then let fly a fart
As loud as it had been a thunder-clap,
And well-nigh blinded Absalom, poor chap;
But he was ready with his iron hot
And Nicholas right in the arse he got.
Off went the skin a hand's-breadth broad, about,
The coulter burned his bottom so, throughout,
That for the pain he thought that he should die.
And like one mad he started in to cry,
"Help! Water! Water! For God's dear heart!"
