Post by mor on Feb 12, 2010 1:57:26 GMT -8
Love’s Last Dying Dream. Celtic Lament.
I am not sure that Iambic is the best vehicle for heptameter verse, I was tempted to try the Choriambus as being of more character, maybe as I get more adventurous I will give it a try.
Stood still as simple sorrow, love’s hand held light in mine
saw femininities beauty, nature’s fairest set design.
Such words, of softness spoken, truths true requiem of time
subdued phantasmagoria, so surreally, sublime.
Past ardor feels a failing, from times relentless tide
lost penance pairs a presence, of such sequestered bride.
Pre-eminently it selective, sight fights there a tear
when former beauty, would by visual’s sense appear.
Pain proves cares panacea, seeks entity- a placed to enrol
Scot’s free cared passion and sincerity frae a soul.
I sang to her life’s story, in true tenor’s voice so clear
exquisite beauties came, they back from Yester year.
Gave grace to all her goodness, in clear set it clarity
vied truth its truest virtue, I mocked mendacity.
Where be such wondrous favours they bestow’d fair on me
pursuing passions own persona- reckless feck’s of fee.
Our amatorial embraces- forgotten memories
achievements past, their own and ‘tained pleasures to appease.
Great laughter’s recollections, only, came good, as these
as answer’s trulli’s ne’er-besetting, sought love’s apologies
Sad Scotia’s heart now broken, envoy’s brief be to enthral
grief gilds voice of emotion, herald’s vaunt mnemonic’s hall.
In where laments of long gone ages, when Gaelic was its queen
my lover’s heart held a beauty, more than I had ever seen.
Our Gaelic sang its greater glory-birthrights of my race
whose tears symbolise true a story’s febrile tains it trace.
Death’s tortured soul a dying; its own sacrifice supreme
as I tend ashen embers and love, its last dying dream.
Mor.
I am not sure that Iambic is the best vehicle for heptameter verse, I was tempted to try the Choriambus as being of more character, maybe as I get more adventurous I will give it a try.
Stood still as simple sorrow, love’s hand held light in mine
saw femininities beauty, nature’s fairest set design.
Such words, of softness spoken, truths true requiem of time
subdued phantasmagoria, so surreally, sublime.
Past ardor feels a failing, from times relentless tide
lost penance pairs a presence, of such sequestered bride.
Pre-eminently it selective, sight fights there a tear
when former beauty, would by visual’s sense appear.
Pain proves cares panacea, seeks entity- a placed to enrol
Scot’s free cared passion and sincerity frae a soul.
I sang to her life’s story, in true tenor’s voice so clear
exquisite beauties came, they back from Yester year.
Gave grace to all her goodness, in clear set it clarity
vied truth its truest virtue, I mocked mendacity.
Where be such wondrous favours they bestow’d fair on me
pursuing passions own persona- reckless feck’s of fee.
Our amatorial embraces- forgotten memories
achievements past, their own and ‘tained pleasures to appease.
Great laughter’s recollections, only, came good, as these
as answer’s trulli’s ne’er-besetting, sought love’s apologies
Sad Scotia’s heart now broken, envoy’s brief be to enthral
grief gilds voice of emotion, herald’s vaunt mnemonic’s hall.
In where laments of long gone ages, when Gaelic was its queen
my lover’s heart held a beauty, more than I had ever seen.
Our Gaelic sang its greater glory-birthrights of my race
whose tears symbolise true a story’s febrile tains it trace.
Death’s tortured soul a dying; its own sacrifice supreme
as I tend ashen embers and love, its last dying dream.
Mor.
