This poem is about immutable love. I felt a romantic, formal expression, was the best approach. The internal rhyme of the second line of each stanza to the next joins the poet and his subject spiritually and psychically. The rhyming first and third lines of each stanza express temporal union. For these reasons I chose the villanelle as a fitting form. The seasons are a metaphor of time, transcended by love.
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I love thee more than I love me o’ effluent stream of May.
My spring’s past path was as lovely as thine
and summer’s lights dazzled the day.
I do swoon in September’s embrace
when clusters of colors survive the time,
and doting fall leaves interlace.
Thou can muse thy blossoms or suns
or the bounty of harvest bells that chime
and whither thy fragrant waters runs.
When Winter will be my withered end,
my love for thee remains sublime.
Nature’s boundaries my love transcends.
Poetry by Eleni P. Begetis Anastos:
Sappho
She is a kaleidoscopic image
Her soul changes faces
Receiving cosmic messages from space
When the Pleiades are clear
She is in a perfect mood
But she howls when the Moon is full
Words that bubble in her head
Help her polish her mind
And “mend some fences” of her life
From the wild nightmare of her soul
She is a mysterious creature – unpredictable, aggressive
Trying to erase a part of her face
Her life: a carnival of Bacchic revels
She casts her arrows into everything holy
She nests in crags and frozen caves
Converses with the birds
And the spirits of the Earth
She is Sappho, searching for love
The Troubadour of Love
Someday I will die.
I can’t hold back time.
But the few yellow pages I leave behind
If anyone bothers to read their lines
I hope he can see through the words
That I am a troubadour of love
People that groan like a pine
Carrying the weight of the snow
In bucolic land or high plateau
In city or by the sea
Any race or color or creed
I feel their fatigue. I’m spent in my soul,
For I am their troubadour of love.
I know I can’t find cover against death.
One cannot lock the door against fate.
We must go whiter our road goes
And will be sown as weeds in the prairie.
Insignificant amongst other forgotten souls
I will lie in a simple grave
under a simple stone engraved,
The Troubadour of Love. |
