Gothic Galatea

Disclaimer:  I do not consider myself a poet.

While I love reading poetry and admire the craft of “language distilled,” my own efforts are conducted in a lazy manner. I use verse to vent and play, and I know enough true poets to recognize the difference between their work and my own. I thank my mother and my other Literature teachers and professors for educating me in the theory and forms of poetry, for showing me how to read on multiple levels and for steering me away from some of the worst pitfalls.

When I do write verse, its form is usually spur-of-the-moment. I love rhythm; I avoid rhymes.  I have, for assignments, written sonnets, haiku, and one horrible sestina that will never see the light of day (I would burn it, save that it reminds me of the consequences of literary disasters), but I have never felt the desire to write these for myself.  Every few years, however, rhymes seem to build up in me like water behind a dam and they must be released.

What follows is a rare, rhymed verse that I created the last time my rhyme-reservoir reached critical mass. I only write such gothic things when I am in a peculiarly merry mood. Who knows why? Anyway, the perfectionist in me knows that it is quite flawed. I nevertheless find it entertaining to read (it was entertaining to write, too) and I thought I would share. I like it best when I read it aloud.

.

Heart of Stone
.
One sharp twist and the heart is broke.
Of stronger stuff had it been made
Then, mayhap, still intact it laid,
But no, the organ’s split and grayed
And all who know should fear.
.
For once this heart be shatteréd,
There’s naught to hold the fury back.
The mind, pain-raw, will turn to black
And ne’er again will offer pact
Of mercy, love, or peace.
.
The night sky split with lighted bolt
And those too near, they heard her scream.
The moon looked on with faded gleam
To see the breaking of her dream
And how her body bent.
.
Fell eyes of flame and empty coal,
Sharp claws, and hands of icy flesh,
Long hair that leaves and bones enmesh,
And heart that twists and cracks afresh,
Do all a monster make.
.
One sharp twist and the heart is broke.
Of stronger stuff had it been made
Then, mayhap, still intact it laid,
But no, the organ’s split and grayed
And all who know should fear.
.
For selfish love he formed her first.
No woman-flesh could satisfy
His critical, appraising eye,
So golem made, to make him sigh
With admiration true.
.
He did not count her soul to be
As free as his, or anyone’s,
And jealousy in him, begun
When her love by another won,
Did take her from him far.
.
For once this heart be shatteréd,
There’s naught to hold the fury back.
The mind, pain-raw, will turn to black
And ne’er again will offer pact
Of mercy, love, or peace.
.
And so he did her lover take
Unto the courts and thence to hang,
And heedless of the dirge she sang,
Dragged her back to prison’s clang
Of bars to keep her still.
.
But little did her maker fear
The fury in her shattered heart.
Her prison she then rent apart
And unto him she did impart
Her rage and pain in full.
.
One sharp twist and the heart is broke.
Of stronger stuff had it been made
Then, mayhap, still intact it laid,
But no, the organ’s split and grayed
And all who know should fear.
.
His broken body then she left,
To roam the woods and forests wild.
For every woman, man, and child
Who finds her now, and is beguiled,
She is a certain death.
.
Curséd is the man who brought this
Creature life and failed to see
That she, like all who would be free,
Never a soulless doll could be.
He doomed us to his fate.
.
For once this heart be shatteréd,
There’s naught to hold the fury back.
The mind, pain-raw, will turn to black
And ne’er again will offer pact
Of mercy, love, or peace.

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About jubilare

Just another tree in the proverbial forest. Look! I have leaves! View all posts by jubilare

7 responses to “Gothic Galatea

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