Posted on by EAT

Helpless

My infatuated fascination with the opposite sex began very early. There are many possible reasons for this, but I can remember even as far back as age four or five absolutely craving for the attention of a beautiful woman. If I had a class with a pretty elementary teacher, it would be impossible for me to concentrate on anything beyond fantasizing about close contact. Not “sex”, that didn’t enter into my thought process until much later, but intimacy nonetheless.

So this set the stage for a life of desire for that which cannot be realized—Or at best realized for only a brief period. For people change. No-one stays young and retains a youthful countenance and physique forever. I even find the plastic “beauty” of older women who have changed their features artificially to be utterly creepy and unsavory.

So why? It is a curse I have not found a way to lift. I would give anything to be able to just appreciate a woman’s beauty as it changes through age, seeing only with my heart. But, sadly, this has never been possible for me, however much I may hope for it. I envy those who have this ability or natural inclination. So, as I reflected on all of this, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th villanelle.

Helpless

My heart is moved by that which wastes away;
My soul is rendered incomplete by beauty
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

An urgency eclipses simple joy,
And caught within its raging rush unruly,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away.

How often I have heaved the heavy sigh,
A heedless hope that heats within profusely
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

Today, as when a half unconscious boy,
Enslaved by aches that govern absolutely,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away.

My sense is charmed by figures slight and spry,
The fairest features doomed to rot unduly,
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

I’m plagued by wonton wants that just destroy,
That urge with fiendish force until, all gloomy,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

Posted on by EAT

A Modern Troubadour’s Lament

This, my 12th terzanelle, was written as I struggled to process and accept the inevitable marginalization every poet experiences who takes a keen interest in prosody and structured forms.

A Modern Troubadour’s Lament

A schism rent the quiet past and left behind confusion,
And egocentric demagogues stepped in to fill the void,
Which brought about the gushing flood of poets in profusion.

Imposters seized the Poet’s name with rough and savage noise,
Demoting prosody to verse with ignorant assumption,
And egocentric demagogues stepped in to fill the void.

A few sang random songs of self with hearts full of presumption,
While others clipped and nipped at prose, indignant and inept,
Demoting prosody to verse with ignorant assumption.

The ones who wrote evolving verse, now looked on with contempt,
Were robbed of all integrity and broadly disregarded,
While others clipped and nipped at prose, indignant and inept.

An art emergent and alive had simply been discarded,
For poets wont to learn that art and dream in measured strains
Were robbed of all integrity and broadly disregarded.

So it became unpopular to work in magic frames,
Thus stunting art’s development through future generations
For poets wont to learn that art and dream in measured strains.

The masses heard the demagogues and heeded their frustrations,
And poetry itself became subjected to reform,
Thus stunting art’s development through future generations.

The name of Poet once was rare, not for the average born—
A schism rent the quiet past and left behind confusion,
And poetry itself became subjected to reform,
Which brought about the gushing flood of poets in profusion.