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Poetry Magnum Opus

eclipse
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At night my friend and I would look up at the stars

without a telescope we would pour the night into two jars

my mother claimed that in our chimney lived a ghost

he would elude the flames and do his utmost

to make mischief creating shapes out of the smoke

By the fire my Mother would tell stories of the nightjars

they were as elusive as fire of the nearest stars

under the moon at night I would hear my Mother sing

our intelligent sleeping ghost would wake, joining in whistling

In the morning my jar was filled with the splendid sounds

of nightjars my friend and I slowly searched the grounds

for this elusive bird in the graveyards and the local park

we watched the swans take flight close to dark

uplift from water to wing was like a gift of gold from castle to king

with beauty gone we were like a ruby separated from it's ring

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Verrrry nice (!) and I like the way you try to keep to a couplet rhyming scheme although a couple (ouch) are a bit stretched:

ghost/utmost

smoke/ ?

nightjars/ stars

sing/ whistling.

I think in these cases the syllable count is the problem.

 

I liked it. It's a nice gentle poem.

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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David W. Parsley

Filled with ethos and mystery; diction, image, and pace blend to a nearly inerrant sense of form. Only upon revisiting does the connoisseur detect minor defect in rhyme and scansion, as Brendan says. But I should say that I do not mind the "stretched" rhymes so much as the surrounding effects. For example: sing-sleeping-whistling- morning is at least one too many -ings for my ear. I also do not mind a line ending that does not rhyme with any of the others. If the couplet guides you to your creation, it does not disturb my ear to modulate with departure.

 

Having said all that, I thank you for a wondrous experience. Forgive us if your talent bids us ask you to approach perfection.

 

- Dave

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Hi eclipse,

 

I love your images of pouring 'the night into two jars' and 'our intelligent sleeping ghost' waking to the mother's song. These have such a rich mythical resonance.

 

Thank you.

goldenlangur

 

 

Even a single enemy is too many and a thousand friends too few - Bhutanese saying.

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