What maid is this to bathe
as water-sprite in merry play
where lilies float on willows,
her every charm a scented vapor
of young lotus and new vine?
What girl lives beyond the vale
and takes her pleasures as she will
standing by the water's edge,
so fair as to hear a leaf in breeze
as song ringing through the Summer air?
How does she move in crystal shafts,
the curve of her breast a silver flash
beneath love's sweet hollow of her neck?
What lady bathes in iridescent light,
each turn of wrist so fine as to faint
the eye of he who sees her there?
Fair maid, young man, both to hide
in leaf and shade, one innocent in life
one watchful from a darker side.
Youth falls heavy to this lad, his spirit
lost in willful thrust, no one to guide him,
there need in him no follower to trust.
He is not truer as a man than this moment,
hid in quiet breathlessness, her beauty,
a song of yearning bursting in his chest.
One turn more and Heaven pours
her hair a shower lit, pure gold.
He cannot breathe as she draws near
but hears the water's green caress.
Ah! How He dreams their droplets
fall as motes and drift in halos.
His eyes for her as birds to see this maid
and trill his call beyond this place
where love stands waiting in the sun,
a slant laid low on forest floor,
she steps into the water and hears
a joyful sigh rise above the shore.
As fawn and buck are to the chase, he turns
and parts the fern and reed, her face
a startled doe, a golden frieze of maiden,
she trips the mossy stone and falls.
O' what lad lives who could resist
this moment given? A man waiting to be born
in a wooded pool of evening light
cannot hold back, he reaches out,
she is as thistledown in flight.
When new leaves are soft in curl,
when tender roots push fertile soil,
every sound of cloud and wind
and night filled rain and storm whirls
as one voice completely innocent,
deaf to all but breath and blood, blind
to all but skin and hair and hand and soul
He feels the man he must be, she meets,
not sees, his eyes in need, her limbs
sunlight shimmering in silver,they fall.
What place is this that rises up
and carries sound too far
to hear what lovers say in ripples?
What place is this but an arbour,
a chance to be a woman, she speaks
of love, he is not there, he cannot be.
The air is singing, she cries, the air ,the air!
What maid is this who bathes alone,
a water-sprite in merry play, but she who hears
too late the lotus drown, no one to reach
the shore, to catch a stone to foot.
In one heartbeat, she is undone,
no Spring will ever be as green.
In one heartbeat she is gone,
his delight a prize he won. What lady this?
What way is this? In what light, this?
-df-
In a list
A contest entry
- Calling All Rhyming Story Tellers! by Sgt B.
525 points, ended May 28, 2007, 26 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - 20 entries/ free & easy points =] by Mybeautyisfake.
315 points, ended August 5, 2007, 10 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 11 of 11
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This is beautiful and I want so badly to review it but I got lost in the last verse. Are there two girls? I’m going to give you applause but I’d really appreciate it if you would draw me a thumbnail sketch of the story.
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how well you write like fairy tales
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Rules #1 No adult material.
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stunning.
thank you for your entry.
and good luck =] -
wonderful poem.
Amber
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This is beautiful, old fassioned in a way. I am almost speechless....wonderful job hon.....Pure tallent with words, great write...love it, love it
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This feels "old" to me, like something pulled from a poet from the past - maybe not so much "old" as "classical" with lace and small glasses of sherry in the parlor feeling to it. I read poems like this, freshly made and i think of Elizabeth Browning and for the life of me, i cannot figure out why, but i think of The Blue Scarf by Amy Lowell when i read this and i guess i am too dense to really know why. Well any way there i go again, no critique, sorry, just me with more rambling. Blessings and best wishes, ~richard
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You are one hell of a poet. It's not often someone writes something that strikes me so real. Pity that society socializes the sexes "this way," isn't it? Superman didn't die; he couldn't be in the first place. A lot of men die without ever even knowing what he meant when he made that promise. That's how I see it, anyway. Can't speak for the ladies
Damn.
Youth falls heavy to this lad, his spirit
lost in willful thrust, no one to guide him,
there need in him no follower to trust.
He is not truer as a man than this moment,
hid in quiet breathlessness, her beauty,
a song of yearning bursting in his chest.
One turn more and Heaven pours
her hair a shower lit, pure gold.
What a poem.
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