I am Winterborn, boreal, cheerless son...
the melancholic bard giving birth to oblivion.
I am freezing rain that bites raw skin...
slushing blood with stinging wind.
I am the dulling stupor entering your mind...
the driving blizzard leaving you blind.
I am heavy sky, hoary and bleak...
days void of sun and draining you weak.
I am barren trees and frozen waste land...
the jagged ground that rips the hand.
I am hardened lakes and ice that groans...
the wolves of winter that ravenously moan.
I am frost ringed moon and crystallized breath...
cracked bleeding lips and comfort's quick death.
I am the arrival of dread and the resident forlorn...
the old man's heir... I am Winterborn.
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License.
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Welcome to "When I Wax"-- a place to escape the pedants and wax poetic, or even wax artistic.
The mythologist Joseph Campbell was asked by an interviewer how a regular person could preserve his sense of the mythic when so many feel too besieged by the claims of every day living. He said, "You must have a place to which you can go, in your heart, in your mind, or your house, almost every day, where you do not know what you owe anyone or what anyone owes you. You must have a place you can go to where you do not know what your work is or who you work for, where you do not know who you are married to or who your children are."
When I Wax is such a place for me. Blogging drafts of poetry and other sundries is like practice fly-casting on the front lawn... it may look silly, but it's effective...
The mythologist Joseph Campbell was asked by an interviewer how a regular person could preserve his sense of the mythic when so many feel too besieged by the claims of every day living. He said, "You must have a place to which you can go, in your heart, in your mind, or your house, almost every day, where you do not know what you owe anyone or what anyone owes you. You must have a place you can go to where you do not know what your work is or who you work for, where you do not know who you are married to or who your children are."
When I Wax is such a place for me. Blogging drafts of poetry and other sundries is like practice fly-casting on the front lawn... it may look silly, but it's effective...
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CURRENT MOON
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Thank you
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
George Gordon Byron
The Destruction of Sennacherib
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License.
5 comments:
poem dated 2/20/93
wow.. that is full of biting imagery... very well worded... an excellent showcase of your creative talent.. love this!!!!
like pieces of snow flakes that settles in the same spot, guess that's what winter feels like sometimes, only it never stays the same way
nice treasure to pull out! looks like you were born a poet. i agree that the imagery captures the subject well...winter's raw side in pristine glory
This is very good, all of it, very elemental... as well as the fragment you posted recently. Thank you!
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