Post by Eurydice on Jul 23, 2007 10:02:26 GMT -5
((In progress, still fiddling around with it, but figured I'd post it anyway. First piece written for Mene Firiel. I'm hoping I'll come up with a better title later.
Also, for some reason, whenever I've been writing poetry of late, it forces itself into some sort of stylistic repetition, iambic pentameter, and present tense. Even when I say, "Rawr no I want past tense meep!" it keeps shifting back into present. Hat?))
the small girl saw it light on her windowsill
marshall its strength, heart pressing on its breast,
and, with a twitch of rusty-coloured wings,
sail off, as if to say, "why ever not?"
pale, pointed chin set on the windowsill,
desire stirred itself inside her breast;
her eager fingers primped her ruddy wings.
she'd pace that bird, quite so; why ever not?
scrambling up to crouch on the windowsill,
she lept, her bright heart singing in her breast,
but, the air no cushion for her rust-coloured wings,
plummeted, aching for flight (forever not)
her mother spotted her from the windowsill
her mother's heart lept up into her throat,
ran out to check, relieved to see her twitch--
sign of the girl's well-being her one desire
and, cushioning her child from further hurt,
toted her inside, minding her battered wings,
while the girl, uncomprehending, marshalling her strength to speak,
whimpered, "but, why ever not?"
Also, for some reason, whenever I've been writing poetry of late, it forces itself into some sort of stylistic repetition, iambic pentameter, and present tense. Even when I say, "Rawr no I want past tense meep!" it keeps shifting back into present. Hat?))
the small girl saw it light on her windowsill
marshall its strength, heart pressing on its breast,
and, with a twitch of rusty-coloured wings,
sail off, as if to say, "why ever not?"
pale, pointed chin set on the windowsill,
desire stirred itself inside her breast;
her eager fingers primped her ruddy wings.
she'd pace that bird, quite so; why ever not?
scrambling up to crouch on the windowsill,
she lept, her bright heart singing in her breast,
but, the air no cushion for her rust-coloured wings,
plummeted, aching for flight (forever not)
her mother spotted her from the windowsill
her mother's heart lept up into her throat,
ran out to check, relieved to see her twitch--
sign of the girl's well-being her one desire
and, cushioning her child from further hurt,
toted her inside, minding her battered wings,
while the girl, uncomprehending, marshalling her strength to speak,
whimpered, "but, why ever not?"