Through nights long enough
to circle the source
of our being, despite my remaining
untouched by other bodies
of consequence, I am left
to rediscover, time and time again,
a likeness in our solitude.
Because my sky is a barren womb,
my only moon begotten was an image
that this shroud burned for, now burning for
the vanity of images.
Yet still you broadcast your study
of my desolation. In what
way do I appear to you,
as you to me, that you can distance yourself
from your own divinity?
There is the madness
that is frightening the green
from your terrain. In the protracted absence
of your song, it is my waiting
that you gaze upon, my believing that
you are as you were, a
small bright deity of love.
Draft 2. The Venusian
Through nights long enough
to circle the source
of our being, despite my remaining
untouched by other bodies
of consequence, I am left
to rediscover, time and time again,
a likeness in our solitude.
Because my sky is a barren womb,
the only moon begotten
I can dedicate a language to, is a fiction
that this shroud is burning for.
Yet still you broadcast your study
of my desolation. In what
way do I appear to you,
as you do to me, that you can distance yourself
from your own divinity?
There is the madness
that frightens the viridescence
from your terrain. In the protracted absence
of your song, it is my waiting
that you gaze upon, my believing that
you are as you were, a
small bright deity of love.
Draft 1. The Venusian
Through nights long enough
to circle the source
of our being, despite remaining
untouched by other bodies
of consequence, I am left
to rediscover, time and time again,
a likeness in our solitude.
Because my sky is a barren womb,
the only satellite begotten
I can confess a language to
is the one I dream about in sulfur.
Yet still you broadcast your study
of my desolation. In what
way do I appear to you,
as you do to me, that you can distance yourself
from your own divinity?
There is the madness
that frightens the viridescence
from your terrain. In the protracted absence
of your song, it is my waiting
that you gaze upon, my believing that
you are as you were, a
small bright deity of love.
(02-24-2026, 05:18 AM)alonso ramoran Wrote: Through nights long enough
to circle the source
of our being, despite remaining
untouched by other bodies
of consequence, I am left
to rediscover, time and time again,
a likeness in our solitude.
Because my sky is a barren womb,
the only satellite begotten
I can confess a language to
is the one I dream about in sulfur.
Yet still you broadcast your study
of my desolation. In what
way do I appear to you,
as you do to me, that you can distance yourself
from your own divinity?
There is the madness
that frightens the viridescence
from your terrain. In the protracted absence
of your song, it is my waiting
that you gaze upon, my believing that
you are as you were, a
small bright deity of love.
In moderate critique, I'm not sure exactly what this is about, but love it anyway.
First stanza: describing conditions on Venus, from the POV of a native or at least a dweller. "Likeness in our solitude" would argue against this, but from afar Earth would seem noisy but accompanied only by an obviously barren moon. And such a diaphanous atmosphere! "Bodies of consequence" - all she's experienced is a few small Soviet probes that expired almost instantly - pebbles thrown, weakly, by an impossible lover against her window.
Second stanza: she wants to communicate. But her atmosphere's so thick, her heat beneath it so intense, there's no outlet. The dream-suitor is, presumably, Earth. This stanza's construction makes it hard to puzzle out; a less literal translation from the Venusian would help.
Third stanza: she's annoyed about the probes - even the radar tingle has tailed off. Do you still care? Did you ever? Or was it all in her imagination - setting up the reveal in the last stanza.
Final stanza: the reveal - of course she sees Earth as a god, just as Earth saw her as a goddess. A bright disk, oddly blue, with a puzzling distemper of green alternating between the hemispheres. Her optics aren't precise enough to see those bright patches that appear on his night side.
On the whole, I like this very much (despite being Martian, myself, and feeling a bit spurned in favor of the nearer neighbor). The wording is a bit convoluted in spots (especially S.2) but always appropriately dreamy. Line breaks are effective (...by other bodies/of consequence for example).
There's a little confusion between Venusian (an inhabitant) and Venus the planet as speaker. Not sure how, or if this should be resolved; leaving it ambiguous or subject to interpretation is fine, really.
Much enjoyed and slightly understood, maybe. Thanks for posting.
Thank you for your thoughtful comments. I’m glad some parts of the poem are coming through in the way they are for you. I still found myself wanting to make some changes though, particularly to that 2nd stanza. Would love to hear what you and others might think.
Hi alonso, just briefly to say that for me I think stanza two is now even more awkward to read than before and the loss of 'I dream about in sulfur' is not beneficial to the poem.
Read this a few times now and been meaning to comment, I'll hopefully come back to it.
(02-24-2026, 05:18 AM)alonso ramoran Wrote: Through nights long enough
to circle the source
of our being, despite my remaining adding "my" here clarifies possible ambiguity (implied "our")
untouched by other bodies
of consequence, I am left
to rediscover, time and time again,
a likeness in our solitude.
Because my sky is a barren womb,
the only moon begotten
I can dedicate a language to, is a fiction
that this shroud is burning for. discussion of this stanza below - the key may be ending sentences/phrases with a preposition
Yet still you broadcast your study is "broadcast" the best word here? "b[b]eam," perhaps even "announce"[/b]
of my desolation. In what
way do I appear to you, [b]a simple "How" beginning this line could serve in place of "In what/way" and leave strong "desolation" at line end[/b]
as you do to me, that you can distance yourself[b]is "do" necessary here?[/b]
from your own divinity?
There is the madness
that frightens the viridescence
from your terrain. In the protracted absence an alternate interpretation here: is it not Earth after all?
of your song, it is my waiting
that you gaze upon, my believing that
you are as you were, a
small bright deity of love.
Some improvements noted in the revision, a couple of suggestions (above), discussion, and confession.
Concerning S.2,
Because my sky is a barren womb, the only moon begotten I can dedicate a language to, is a fiction that this shroud is burning for.
the problem is the convoluted sentence structure - to lay it out bluntly, "my only moon is a fiction" with subsidiary comments. The sentence as a whole, and its major clause, each end in a preposition ("to" and "for") which is pedantically disliked - but this stanza shows why. To, not rewrite, only rearrange,
My sky's a barren womb, wherefore I can only dedicate a language to its absent moon, a fiction for which this shroud burns.
And now, the confession: I've turned up another (wrong?) interpretation: the target of this desolate cry is not necessarily Earth, but possibly my own (now desolate) Mars! Always the (illicit) lover of Venus, mad indeed, as war is ("There is the madness") and with the unfortunately lost green Percival Lowell definitely saw - not to mention the canals. Did Martians probe Venus before Earth people were able to detect their "broadcasts?" Have to look it up in old issues of the Martian Scientific Journal.
Anyway, I still like it, and the edits have helped. Hope my blocky rearrangement of S.2 suggests a (much better) solution.
Tried to address your feedback as well as I could with this edit. I found one part of S2 sort of redundant while trying to restructure the stanza. I'm hoping that the change pays off in some way and that it reads better.
Tried to address your feedback as well as I could with this edit. I found one part of S2 sort of redundant while trying to restructure the stanza. I'm hoping that the change pays off in some way and that it reads better.
Concentrating on S.2, here from your third draft,
Because my sky is a barren womb, my only moon begotten was an image that this shroud burned for, now burning for the vanity of images.
and to avoid just rewriting... this transitions back and forth between then and now. Part of the confusion might be alleviated by a one-way transit. That is, you could start out with now (my barren, shrouding sky burns) though you might consider "veil" because Venus doesn't admit she's dead (which "shroud" implies).
Then bring in the fictional moon and, finally, the vanity of images. Or, you could start with vanity as the organizing idea of the stanza and work forward.
If possible, some variety in the "burn for" phrasing could help. Heat, radiation, maybe something about trapped within the confining veil, tears of molten lead and tin - silvery. (Well, that last is far from your material.) And could the word "stillborn" apply to the imaginary moon?
Not many of those ideas may be practical, or say what you want. Use imagination; it doesn't have to flow perfectly smooth, Venus is emotional here, so a halting rhythm is OK. But she's working through her tragedy.
