How that florid scent
Wafts through your two vents
Making all your senses yield
To wilderness in a field.
How the petals soft
Carry you aloft
To the clouds above us all,
Lightly float and never fall.
How the colors beam
In a matching scheme,
Fine art in a museum
Painting over tedium.
Yet how flowers fail!
Before you they’re pale,
My Lady across the earth,
Rarest blossom the world hath.
-Evan Mantyk
I was also thinking that poems in Old English alliterative verse could have been rendered in a kind of sing-song,…
Margaret, as I've been thinking, it occurred to me: how about Bede? He would make a different sort of heroic…
Sharlie, what a fun reality-based poem that likely applies to many of our readers as it does to me. A…
Also since 2020 all my poetry or other writings (for instance, my articles at Classical Singer Magazine, and here at…
What a fantastic last line to an intriguing poetic narrative. Thanks for the read, Scharlie.
PEONIES, SHELL, AND COILED CANDLE: AFTER STONE ROBERTS
Upon the pale and shiny stonework ledge
sits shell, white vase, and beeswax candle coil.
Here is a neoclassical-clear edge,
a spare, fine atmosphere betrayed in oil.
Peony petals drooping, perky too,
in yellow, white, red violet, and pink,
against the wall, a dark gray, background hue;
one wonders how they smell, sweet, light, or stink.
The smoothness is disturbed by sharp-shaped conch,
the long-line grooves and patterns of the vase,
the copper-finished plate and clip ensconced
about the sixty-hour candle’s base.
A New Dutch Realist has been let loose
where once New Amsterdam was in the News.