Poetry (61)

Hello Escritori,

I often freak out about my poetic productivity level, challenged as it is every week but I am pleased to report that I have something.

This poem strikes me as somewhat pagan and Blakean in spirit, there’s a taste of Little Girl Lost/Found. I do tend to get a bit Blakean in Autumn. I like this one though I’m not ENTIRELY happy with it on a technical level somehow…

 

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Autumn

Wine of all seasons

All of summer’s youth

And wealth distilled.

Autumn is the cup

That runneth over

And is of its own accord:

Refilled.

 

Nothing, nothing,

Has been wasted

Every grain

Has been laid

That was milled.

 

Extensive be-dewwed cobwebs

Are a lace shroud over a

Skeletal-foliaged

Brown hedge.

A structure diligent

In its miraculous resilience

A bespoke and brittle palace.

 

Russet windfall apples

Green, plucky and tart

From jeunesse

Have gained a rustic blush

Of je ne sais quoi

From Autumn’s

Parchment palmed caress.

 

Autumn, she makes a copper lantern

Of dusk, throwing forth an apricot light.

And casts a benediction on my head

Like a mother.

 

She blesses me again,

With the promise of spring, and

Though it has

An edge of metallic cold

The copper light leaves me haloed.

 

It stains my hair

The colour of gossamer on fire

And my skin is left, all told:

 

Cheeks henna red,

Lips, coral pink,

Body, gold.

 

(© Copyright Pola Negri, 29/09/2016.)

 

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