say what? ...oh. poetry. kind of.
Aug. 27th, 2005 10:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pipistrellafelixI am on a random high point of my tiredness, meaning I don't really want to go to bed yet, and I mean really, it's only ten, why should I? Even though I really ought to, considering that I was nearly falling asleep calling cues today. (My own fault for staying up until I finished my book. Connie Willis is a really fabulous writer--go read Doomsday Book and To Say Nothing of the Dog--I like the second better because it's more lighthearted, but they're both amazing.)
And now, a riff on Sonnet 130 because I feel like writing random poetry. Not iambic pentameter though, I am so not mentally organized enough. And no, this isn't about anybody, although the first lines are like ones I wrote years ago for a crush long gone. (And, incidentally, it's terrible, but I'm posting anyhow, cause...probably because my tiredness is preventing normal self esteem issues.)
His hair isn't a sweeping midnight black,
like the hero in my latest novel.
It isn't a bright sunny blond, either. In fact
it's sort of muddy; and it needs cutting.
His eyes are plain brown, no strange gleams,
no firey depths to drown in
--and yet strangely when he smiles I find
i can't look away. Why this hypnotism?
He is no magazine model, clean and pure;
his skin has been airbrushed only by sea air:
his lips chapped, his nose crooked, no smooth complexion
for light to dance upon and praise. In fact,
it's rather plain; and sunburnt as well.
When he says my name I smile--
as though my face were obeying his voice
instead of my mind--
And yet, five times of ten, he pronounces it wrong.
He is no lightheeled gentleman:
I have wished for a perfect hero to dance with, but he
can't keep time. In fact,
he trips, and he can't carry a tune in a barrel.
And yet, he dances with me anyway. And he holds my hands
carefully and kindly in his own,
as though apologizing through touch;
And laughs when he steps wrong, because he knows
it will happen again;
And when he laughs and spins me in,
and when on that spin we lose the beat,
and nearly fall--
it doesn't matter.
I love him anyway.
This song makes me want to build a tall, tall treehouse in the middle of the forest, so that I climb into and beyond the trees and see the stars spread across the entire sky, with the nearest human lights so far on the horizon they could be stars themselves...
And now, a riff on Sonnet 130 because I feel like writing random poetry. Not iambic pentameter though, I am so not mentally organized enough. And no, this isn't about anybody, although the first lines are like ones I wrote years ago for a crush long gone. (And, incidentally, it's terrible, but I'm posting anyhow, cause...probably because my tiredness is preventing normal self esteem issues.)
His hair isn't a sweeping midnight black,
like the hero in my latest novel.
It isn't a bright sunny blond, either. In fact
it's sort of muddy; and it needs cutting.
His eyes are plain brown, no strange gleams,
no firey depths to drown in
--and yet strangely when he smiles I find
i can't look away. Why this hypnotism?
He is no magazine model, clean and pure;
his skin has been airbrushed only by sea air:
his lips chapped, his nose crooked, no smooth complexion
for light to dance upon and praise. In fact,
it's rather plain; and sunburnt as well.
When he says my name I smile--
as though my face were obeying his voice
instead of my mind--
And yet, five times of ten, he pronounces it wrong.
He is no lightheeled gentleman:
I have wished for a perfect hero to dance with, but he
can't keep time. In fact,
he trips, and he can't carry a tune in a barrel.
And yet, he dances with me anyway. And he holds my hands
carefully and kindly in his own,
as though apologizing through touch;
And laughs when he steps wrong, because he knows
it will happen again;
And when he laughs and spins me in,
and when on that spin we lose the beat,
and nearly fall--
it doesn't matter.
I love him anyway.
This song makes me want to build a tall, tall treehouse in the middle of the forest, so that I climb into and beyond the trees and see the stars spread across the entire sky, with the nearest human lights so far on the horizon they could be stars themselves...
