01-24-2015, 01:09 PM (This post was last modified: 01-12-2019, 05:42 PM by RiverNotch.)
I can feel the heat of summer
swinging with your every gesture.
Writhing on your swollen nest
are my fingers, wine-stained serpents.
Smells of freshly drafted cider
ripple from your girt and navel.
Spirits blue with autumn's bite
stalk to steal our love away.
Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your bosom with hot blood.
The fearless rhythm of our love
blushes the winter blind beyond.
You're wearing gaudy chintz again:
honeybees waltz to your spring figure.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
dreaming sweetly in our cellar.
I can feel the heat of summer
swinging with your every gesture.
Writhing on your swollen nest
are my fingers, wine-stained serpents.
Smells of freshly drafted cider
ripple from your supple navel.
Spirits blue with autumn's bite
follow this scent to steal our youth.
Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your bosom with hot blood.
The rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.
Your old sundress on display:
spring's honeyed musk returning.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
dreaming sweetly in our cellar.
Here's a metered version of the poem, with an emphasis on changes associated with the seasons. Not much different from the rest, I have to note.
I can feel the heat of summer swinging
with your every humid whisper.
Writhing on your ruddy temples
are my fingers, greedy wine-stained serpents.
Smells of freshly-drafted cider
ripple from your noble dimples.
Bothering spirits blue with autumn's bite
follow this scent to steal our love away.
Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your shriveled bosom with hot blood.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
conquers the silver blind beyond.
Flowers are blooming on your skin again:
your vernal musk, your honey's wax, returns.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
dreaming sweetly in our cellar.
Yes, the meter is meant to be inconstant, but there's a sort of pattern with how it goes. And I do feel that iambic would capture the heat and slow nature of summer better, with trochaic being stronger for the reverse, but I'd like to think that the meter is meant to capture the spirit of the seasons themselves, rather than just the spirits of the characters: summer is usually a much livelier time than winter. I'm a bit bothered by the feminine ending of the first stanza getting in the way of the spondee, which sort of breaks the sense of doing spondees at both ends, and I'm also bothered with the slowness of the final stanza. I'm also a bit insecure with how the images work, whether the whole thing is strong and vivid enough to be effective. But thanks for the coming feedback!
Old edits:
A play on a different idea:
I can feel the heat of summer swinging
to every humid breath you take.
Rapping on your radiant temples
are my greedy fingers, ten wine-stained snakes.
The bitter atmosphere of fall
nips at your nose, the wilting rose.
Enthralling smells of cider, freshly-pressed,
and boiling sap still oozes from your skin.
Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your shriveled bosom with hot blood.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
restrains the silver blind beyond.
You're wearing that shift of flowers again:
your vernal musk, your honey's golden wax.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
unsullied in our dim cellar.
First edit:
I can feel the heat of summer swinging
to every humid breath you take.
Rapping on your radiant temples
are my greedy fingers, ten wine-stained snakes.
The bitter atmosphere of fall
nips at your nose, the noble hill.
Enthralling smells of cider, freshly-pressed,
and boiling maple sap bleed from your skin.
Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your trembling bosom with hot blood.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.
You're wearing that shift of flowers again:
your vernal musk, the wax to your honey.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
sleeping soundly in our cellar.
Original:
I can feel the heat of summer swinging
to every humid breath you take.
Rapping on your pallid temples
are my greedy fingers, ten wine-stained snakes.
The bitter atmosphere of fall
nips at your nose, the noble hill.
Enthralling smells of cider, freshly-pressed,
and boiling maple sap bleed from your skin.
Blossoming flames and heady beer
are passions we behold while in these chains.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.
You're wearing that shift of flowers again:
your vernal musk, the wax to your honey.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
unsullied in our dim cellar.
