Verse Submissions

[A_Non_Ymous]

This thread is for posting verses, and is the logical continuation of the "Poetry" thread
started in "Community Exchange" by HawkLord.

New verses should be posted here. Technical discussions, questions, and banter should
be posted to the MWM Verse Discussions thread in this forum.

LSN

[Anonymous]

The Patchwork City

OK here's my first tentative submission to the new verse game, just two rubai - set in a city/aspect of the city called Zanufand (overtones of the historical Samarkand, and Zanarkand from FF10).

Zanufandique?

The dark senescent sun began to set;
And every parapet and minaret,
�Pon cityscape of Zanufand became
A chiaroscuro in silhouette.

Cool air flirted with revellers in bars,
And breezed along the streets and bright bazaars,
Toyed with hair, made sport with cloaks and capes,
And brushed all with the dust of shattered stars.

[Anonymous]

The gentle cypress and the ancient pine
Give up their savour, subtle, like old wine;
Though sere and withered in the end-world heat
They yield their fragrance even in decline.

A coruscation, nascent with the dark,
Begins across the falling sun to spark,
Reminding those who dare to scope its face
Their fading planet nears its final arc.

Within the Palace, charts spread high and low,
The King’s astronomer was in the know,
Munching a cheroot with a deadly mien:
�There�s no mistake, this babe’s about to blow!’

Gathering up an armful of his charts,
A pensive walk through solemn halls he starts,
Until at last, obeisant to the King,
His baleful information he imparts.

[Grey Mouser]

His features grave with what he has been shown,
The terminus of all that he has known,
His wealth now ashes in the hand of Time,
The King of Zanufand assumes his throne.

Gath’ring at last his senses, and his court,
And grinning madly at some inner thought,
The King of Zanufand, before so dour,
Relates to all the news he has been brought.

�The dread time that we feared has now arrived.
My careful court astronomer has derived
The end of all dreams dancing in our sun,
And no escape for us can be contrived.’

�So go, my courtiers, tell all of our plight,
Abandon petty thoughts and foolish spite,
Send harbingers to let the city know,
The end of Zanufand will be tonight!’

�Prepare the Vistral Dome at my command,
And summon all musicians, every band;
For one vast concert ready all supplies,
The last gig at the end of Zanufand.’

End of pt 1.

[A_Non_Ymous]

Gray wave-lidded, well-dosed with atropine,
The evening sun paints clouds incarnadine;
Wind-whipped spindrift, portent of winter's cold,
A seascape bathed in light amaranthine.

A small skiff docks, a stranger disembarks,
His calm dark face excites but few remarks.
Of middle height, of aspect nondescript,
No merchant he -- exiled ecclesiarch?

That's doubtful, too, for priests don't carry blades.
The black, rune-worked sheath, slung o'er his back, made
Comic contrast with his travel-soiled raiment;
But 'twas no solitary cavalcade.

Not alone, attended (not pursued)
By a great white cat, who followed in lieu
Of brave retainer, or simple man at arms.
A giant lynx makes fearsome retinue.

* * *

[HawkLord]

Now through the air
A pure note resounds
And through the echoey hall rebounds
As, sitting apon a simple chair

The court musician with his lithe grace
Lets his fingers fly across the lyranthe frets
And from his fingers sweet magic he weaves
The people dance to the joyous pace.

He changes tune, to beautiful sorrow
The people stare in rapture, some cry.
Musician is oblivious, engulfed in sound
Using rubato, from some notes he borrows

A little extra precious robbed time
To spin out one long, perfect note
And bend to pitch, to finally resonate
In sympathy with a bell, made it chime.

The sound resounds. He sighs with pleasure,
For him this is the ultimate joy, nothing better
Could ever happen in his world than
Playing his music. There is no way to measure

How brilliant it makes him feel,
Spinning and weaving the notes
Which come, not from the instrument
But from his heart. Now he begins a reel

And the dancers dance and the singers sing
And the musician plays his joyful refrain
Until the door flies open
Letting an awful, harsh note ring.

[mordenkainen]

No-one knows her, though her face all have seen.
Call her a toy: idle courtiers are keen
on hetaerae, yet who cares for a name?
Countless are hers, variegated as sin.

Noxious beauty, and a spark in her eye
(fools could believe was lit by lust and rye)
portals unlath'd that the plebs may not cross.
Lascivious dupes on her prey let her nigh.

Raised in the faith of a resentful cult
the king's religion they thought an insult.
Heresiarch he, they must foil at all costs:
to serve the plot she was given indult!

Absolved by god as she serves the cabal,
vice yet ails her: she hates to be a doll
in these men' s hands, and ev' ry twisted game
on her sanity has taken its toll.

[Grey Mouser]

Part 2 - Plaza and Tavern

Within the ancient cities’ triple gates,
Past wayward streets and mellowing estates,
Conflux of buskers, confluence of vibes,
The Plaza of Philophony awaits.

Here neophyte musicians hawk their skill,
For they aspire to woo the crowds that mill
Between the inns and taverns gathered here,
The essence of their talent to distil.

Melodic dissonance and tuneful glare
Of harsh concordant contrasts splash the air
With tranquil tempest of a thousand sounds,
Floats and rebounds about the Plaza square,

Pleasingly distasteful, strangely normal,
A touch spontaneous yet strictly formal,
A whispered shout, a remedy that wounds,
A combination almost paranormal.

For each musician plies his art alone.
Each strives to prove the virtue of his own
Adopted style as better than the rest:
By city law that’s all they have been shown.

By whimsical and old pedantic law
The city elders all young bards implore
To join a school devoted to one style;
An edict many like but some deplore.

Each school then teaches but a single mode.
To vaunt it then their students they will goad
In competition to excel the rest
And others reputation to erode.

So here instead of harmony - discord
As bards of this or that mode seek to hoard
The fickle graces of the evening crowds,
The many groups that here and there applaud.

Yet on the border of the Plaza square
The largest of the groups is gathered where
A fresh symphonic melts the atmosphere
A daring sound with an engaging flair.

This rebel music braves the evening scene
With subtlety. Its audience is keen
To gather closer to its origin
A little tavern called The Sephirine

End pt 2

[A_Non_Ymous]

"You will never be a poet, Friend Newburg," Dryden might have said.

---
Ornate faأ§ades like harlots brightly farded
Crimson, blue, and violet -- many-gabled
Superannuated remnants of times
And fortunes long dead -- faced one another
Across the cobbled streets of Zanufand.
The palace sat above it all, its walls
Veined with jade and chrysoberyl, its tower
Peridot. The reflected twilight glowed,
A green radiance whose magic transformed
The fountains to a spray of emeralds.

[A_Non_Ymous]

Gray wave-lidded, well-dosed with atropine,
The evening sun paints clouds incarnadine;
Wind-whipped spindrift, portent of winter's cold,
A seascape bathed in light amaranthine.

Ornate faأ§ades like harlots brightly farded
Crimson, blue, and violet -- many-gabled
Superannuated remnants of times
And fortunes long dead -- faced one another
Across the cobbled streets of Zanufand.
The palace sat above it all, its walls
Veined with jade and chrysoberyl, its tower
Peridot. The reflected twilight glowed,
A green radiance whose magic transformed
The fountains to a spray of emeralds.
Unreal city, where dim amber lights glimmer
Warm but weakly in night's encroaching gloom,
And mist creeps in like a ghostly whisper
Amidst the cold bass drumming of the waves.

A small skiff docks, a stranger disembarks,
His calm dark face excites but few remarks.
Of middle height, of aspect nondescript,
No merchant he -- exiled ecclesiarch?

That's doubtful, too, for priests don't carry blades.
The black, rune-worked sheath, slung o'er his back, made
Comic contrast with his travel-soiled raiment;
But 'twas no solitary cavalcade,

Nor pursuit preternatural. In view,
A great white cat, stalks silently in lieu
Of brave retainer, or simple man at arms.
A giant lynx makes fearsome retinue.

Through ancient cobbled streets, his muscles taut,
His mind alert to dangers he'd been taught
To fear, they passed unchallenged through the gate.
Karel, he was called; and a man he sought.

The lynx (hight Posilipo) at his heel,
He strode the vipers' knot of cobbled streets
Of Zanufand, not knowing where they led.

"Lost your way?"--

-- Karel started at the voice,
His hand reached for the sword-hilt, then relaxed
And wheeled to face a young man dressed in ragged
Finery, sea-gray and silken it was,
As some royal robe from distant Baharna.

"If you're a thief," said Karel cautiously...

"You've nothing worth my noble art's display,
Unless it be yon stolen blade strapped fast
Upon your back," said the man. "Your name?
You needn't say your place of origin.
Hyperboreans are not strangers here,
Though seen rarely enough in Zanufand
That your presence here's not robbed of novelty."

[Grey Mouser]

The threads are gathering, of this wayward tale...swift segue back to The Sephirine...

Part 3 The Singer and the Song (incomplete).

Her words were merry, witty, comic, sly,
And though her song was soft it carried far;
She played upon a simple sarabandra,
And nimbly worked her fingers at the strings

Her chestnut hair was carefully adorned
With gifts she had been given for her songs;
She wore them proudly, like the rarest gems,
Those little rings, beads, feathers, gauds and charms.

Her garments were a mix of sundry styles,
Blended in brightness by her gentle grace,
Patchwork miscellany of homespun art,
More gifts from those whose hearts gave her a place.

Her smile was quirky, never far from her,
Though it would hide when sad compassion moved her,
It soon would reappear again when, fondly,
The memory of some pleasant thought she pondered.

***Edited to remove tautologious rhyme.***

[HawkLord]

Sadly this thread seems to have died! It was a nice idea. I'm going to post a little poem I came up with but I cant remember it all so it may be slightly different from my original version of it. I dont know if the title is used for another poem.

Beauty Eternal

If I had wings with which to fly,
Spun gossamer wings; if these had I
Through the air I would search for thy
Tender beauty.

And if, by chance, my wings did tire
And, fearing my fatigue too dire,
I came to alight upon
A grassy meadow,

And if all this did come to pass
And, there among the summer grass
I found a bright red rose in
Summer garments.

And if this rose did chance to be
The finest flower in radiant beauty
It still could never match thy
Tender beauty.



Theres another verse but I cannot remember it at all, I'll edit this post to add it in when I remember it.

[A_Non_Ymous]

It has not died -- it's just resting!

Seriously, I've got a big chunk written, but not revised. It needs some work before I post it.

LSN

[Grey Mouser]

Yep, it's just snoozing for a while Hawklord. I'll add some new bits when somebody gives me a kick when its my turn, or following LSN; likely after Prototype X is finished.

PS. Some nice verses Hawklord. What form are your stanzas? Or have you just invented a new one?

[Mikey_C]

Here we go folks:

Villanelle

It’s time, my dear, that you and I agreed
To turn our backs on this bedraggled dream
It’s not for us to suffer without need

Because we know it never can succeed
And that strife the wasted hours cannot redeem
It’s time, my dear, that you and I agreed

We are not of that grim single-minded breed
Who can sacrifice what is to what might seem
It’s not for us to suffer without need

Where others may be full of fearsome greed
Through that fog our morning sun may gleam
It’s time, my dear, that you and I agreed

There is a cleaner dish where we can feed
Let’s hold our hearts up high in full esteem
It’s not for us to suffer without need

Unmoored now, we can marvel at the speed
As our stately ship sails centre-stream
It’s time, my dear, that you and I agreed
It’s not for us to suffer without need


I wish I had more time to read all the creative work on this site, and maybe contribute more - roll on June and the end of exams for a while!