Ottava Rima

The soft ruffling of curtains shone in light

As if the tepid rays did search for deep,

Repressed darkness settled beneath with fright.

The leaves stirred cold as if to try to keep

Some aspect of the dream state within sight.

Yet with the dawn the birds sang, stripping sleep

From the beholder’s eye, the vision did

In fact vanish, and with it all was rid.

 

The hushed voices rattled against the brook,

Awakening the boy that had lied near,

His head nestled against that very nook

That was hidden among a field so clear.

A woman wove through thicket all to look

After the kin that had vanished among

The shaded woods, a heart that was so young.

 

He tore the sheets above his head and hid

Under the cool cushion, drawing out time

As if his temporary absence bid

The rising sun adieu, as the sublime

Shadows did lay with him as friends. The kid

Lived just around the corner, hunted by

Death. The boy lays among the cradle’s lie.

 

His eyes flickered, calling the nameless bird

Which flew away with no direction seen.

Its song had fluttered hopelessly, though words

Never were heard. The cry had asked too keen

Requests to be answered, for one allured

As he by the attractive leaves of green

Could surely not follow a task of toil.

The Mistress bellowed, the boy under soil.

 

And as he lifts his head, unknowing still,

The being cried in an attempt to claim

That which had perished. Yet he pops the pill,

Unaware, without care rather, that shame

Blisters the soul, inhibits one’s free will,

Bringing one to question their Christian name.

The void deepens, as his presence does drift.

To the point of horizon, he does shift.

 

 

Embellished into the woodwork, letters

Arranged, the order being of the least

Importance. So strange, it was thought better.

The boy himself proclaimed his self deceased,

Inter his sorrows, just as a debtor.

A proper burial required a priest,

Who begrudgingly eulogized the late

Charles P. Wells the third. Peter awaits.

 

The heart slows and the mind is blank and still.

A numbing of the soul, a romance tale

That had never been inscribed, ink and quill

Frightened by the specters, sign the betrayal

On the dotted line, imprisoned he till

The reaper claims his prize, bought from the sale

Of souls put on so many years ago

By the sea. He drowns, taken. Ebb and flow.

 

The boy journeys, riding fate’s river to

The sea. Body entrapped under the ground,

Confined by the banks, by the real, the true.

Eternal songs of the loon made mere sound.

Gone were the joys that at one time he knew.

The man had hidden him long ago, found

Beneath the skin, his soul, in what he does.

Unsettling memories of what he once was.

 

The summer sun and all its warmth did bring

The crippled, dying man from his damp cave.

Inviting southern breezes loudly sing

Out to the deaf, the blind, hoping to save

His core, his crux, his soul. New birth, the Spring

Of his new self. Upon him they engrave:

“Wake up dead man you still have life to live.

Wake up dead man you still have much to give.”

Author's Note

After going over a poem by Byron, "Don Juan" I believe, in class, a professor of mine challenged us to write a poem in ottava rima. He said something along the lines of "you'll be hard pressed coming up with anything interesting". I, for some reason, took up the challenge, ultimately entitling the poem "Ottava Rima". I had meant to change the name, but it seems to have stuck. It isn't exactly finished, but I thought I would throw it out into the world anyways.

Reviews

[Undying Glory]

this was really great work and i love this rhyming format. i have never read something like this before so i found this awesome and unique. i agree with Poetic Whisper, this is so vivid and powerful. awesome work!

[cfix]

Wow this is such a powerful write here. I like this and all it's vivid imagery and detail. Impressive write here.