Written as a challenge by Rob and blamed on me if it is bad and attributed to his inspiration if it has any merit at all. . .
thyself a lover's seat of straw
well-woven with a woman's touch
thy strength in interlocking rows
like fingers laced as lover knows
who hard to hold, to loose: how much.
Ah, Wickerware, how still thee lie
a bed as well too firm of side
that lovers rocking straining hard
cannot thy bonds, thy strength defy
thy woven armor: Achillean hide
protective as angelic guard.
Behold thy brother, Wicker chest,
whose metier exceeds the best
within thy resting chambers walls
thy wicker decorating halls
of castles of most gentle kings
to harshest that the peon brings.
At last, dear Wicker, on the wall,
a mirrored wicker seeing all
reflecting all unbiased sights
what see'st thou slaves or stately knights
with opining weeper's tears
to elder's waiting reaper's years.
The groaning moan lives constant, long
ripetivo, sonorous, strong
thy song sweet psalm of saint too weak
incessant whisper, constant squeak
this rhythmic tone, which I rejoice
thy praises sing with poet voice.
Thou wait'st within, without in rain,
blessed in white, resisting stain,
or dressed au natural, like straw
or wood, thy color, naked raw –
how honored art thy Wicker name
to last fore'er in Wicker fame.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 536 times
Written on 2007-02-09 at 18:28
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Ode to Wickerware
Oh, Wicker, how I stand in awethyself a lover's seat of straw
well-woven with a woman's touch
thy strength in interlocking rows
like fingers laced as lover knows
who hard to hold, to loose: how much.
Ah, Wickerware, how still thee lie
a bed as well too firm of side
that lovers rocking straining hard
cannot thy bonds, thy strength defy
thy woven armor: Achillean hide
protective as angelic guard.
Behold thy brother, Wicker chest,
whose metier exceeds the best
within thy resting chambers walls
thy wicker decorating halls
of castles of most gentle kings
to harshest that the peon brings.
At last, dear Wicker, on the wall,
a mirrored wicker seeing all
reflecting all unbiased sights
what see'st thou slaves or stately knights
with opining weeper's tears
to elder's waiting reaper's years.
The groaning moan lives constant, long
ripetivo, sonorous, strong
thy song sweet psalm of saint too weak
incessant whisper, constant squeak
this rhythmic tone, which I rejoice
thy praises sing with poet voice.
Thou wait'st within, without in rain,
blessed in white, resisting stain,
or dressed au natural, like straw
or wood, thy color, naked raw –
how honored art thy Wicker name
to last fore'er in Wicker fame.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 536 times
Written on 2007-02-09 at 18:28
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