Walking through my garden strewn with thyme,
A weeping willow seeks my eye.
I throw myself beneath its shade,
And there, blooming deep from a crack in the earth,
Rises a stalk that looks like a branching stag’s horn.
The branches cross at right angles, giving the plant the look of a lopsided cross.
This willow hides a chapel
And the altar lies before me.
Three bells dangle from the solitary living branch.
The other rots on the vine.
I touch the first blossom: a bud;
Unready and naïve to the ways of the world.
As my fingers stroke the velvety, still-hard shell
I see the birth of a young, alabaster-hued stag,
His mother nursing him ‘neath the bowers of rosetrees and myrtle.
The second flower has bloomed to full beauty-
It hangs cupped and full of life.
But a flap of a petal dangles down, dragging the beauty with it.
As I smell its haunting scent, I see my stag strutting proudly before a doe, showing off his newly beamed antlers.
She sniffs and walks away. He stands, head bowed, crestfallen.
I want to reach out, to stroke his soft fur…
But the vision whirls away in a frenzy of colors: earth and fragile pink and ivory-hued white.
Broken love has haunted the branches of this stalk.
The third lies dead, brown and wilted, so shriveled it should have fallen long ago.
But I sense that it remains a tribute: a reminder of the inevitable arrival of winter.
I finger it warily, its dry, dusty feel strange and morbid to my fingertips.
I see a vision of a bleeding hart frantically fleeing the baying dogs tearing at its throat
And the wild calls of the horns that follow his every hoofbeat-
His snow-white coat raped by streaks of red, then black.
I open my eyes and come back to the chapel of the willow.
Three bells, one a child, one a tongued bloom, and one dead and ravaged by winter’s savage caresses.
The crude, living cross marks the grave of a splendid, once-white beast.
Now he rots putrid and vile beneath my knees, sunk deep into the fertile loam.
The chapel was erected as a memorial, and nature here paid homage to her creation:
The white stag, also known as bleeding hart.
Author notes
Bleeding Heart #13
I do not know much about bleeding hearts, in fact, I thought a bleeding heart was only a type of tetra fish until you came along. So I tried to write a metaphorical poem based on the name 'bleeding heart' alone. I hope my pun, 'bleeding hart', is acceptable. That's how I traced the story. Also hope sort of epic poetry is OK. This was what bleeding hearts inspired me to...
I also had trouble cutting this down to 35 lines, as can be seen. But I hope I kept the essence of the original 78-line poem. This was a toughie for me to whittle down!! (If you click the line numbers button, you will se that the counter is wrong and that it is 35 lines exactly.)
A contest entry
- AP Best of the Best Season Two Semi-Round by B Chandler.
300 points, ended February 10, 2007, 5 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Be My Muse by Artemis Gem.
1298 points, ended May 23, 2007, 29 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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ha-woah-
i knew i recognised this.... -
I wouldn't call this a poem, but I love it!
Such beautiful imagery and description....
But I sense that it remains a tribute: a reminder of the inevitable arrival of winter.
I finger it warily, its dry, dusty feel strange and morbid to my fingertips.
open my eyes and come back to the chapel of the willow.
Three bells, one a child, one a tongued bloom, and one dead and ravaged by winter’s savage caresses.
The white stag, also known as bleeding hart.
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You...YOU PRODIGY! !!!!! GAH@!!!! its not fair!!!you have too much TALENT FOR ONE PERSON!!!! *goes to emo corner and cries*
It makes little sense, but it is very poetic and beautiful. it makes me think of something from Revelations.
The chapel was erected as a memorial, and nature here paid homage to her creation:
The white stag, also known as bleeding hart.
keep it up girl! God's given you talent!
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