Each month, write a new collection.
Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses, Andrew Llyod Weber (non-traditional sonnet)throne of power, mirrored backing, her wandis an infernal artifact, a songlike a spell enslaving lovers— soldiersrun through with daggers— a remolding primordial libations to fill hercup a constant run, overflowing. power,the roots of country writhe beneath her neckan upturned chin— eyes a refusal to break contact is a game, staminaand a young lifetime’s worth of practice,but still her framed lions wait in posemouths open begging to animate sniffing out the revolt, a young man draws a murderous eternity to a sharpened point.
I love it when you use form man! Great
WeberShe seduces her victimsWith her promises and favorsSpilling her wine on their faceTo savor the pigs as they swigAnd witness in the mirrorTheir forlorn scorn and all of Their fears going under her spellAs the wand in her palmTells of hell becoming her pondsThe temptress of mythological loreLoving the hero diabolically more Than the others as she discoversHer plan dethronedAs Ulysses kisses her hand aloneTo save his men from her clutchesAs she gave them her sinGrinning like a seductress
That's great Daryl!!
A Web For SwinePerched at the edge of her island rockshe spy's a brand new toyshifting the bust of her silken frock Circe plots and schemes with joyShe lays out the cushions so softand drenches the tables in goldsoon her prey will be so aloftthey'll believe anything they're toldHis body is so young and deliciously hardbut there is wisdom in his facein this game she'll play her very best cardof mistakes, there can be no traceShe beckons them now with drinkthe goblet filled right to the lineand while she woos him to the brinkthe others are cast out as swineThe boy in man's clothing is caughtensnared by his own lusty desireto escape her will be a battle hard foughtshould he choose to leap into that fire
I love how you've used rhyme here. It takes me a long time to teach someone to use it this well.
You wait and watch the gameWand high, lips red, cup stillGown loose, eyes low, air chillAs he draws to your flame.His breath is stale with seaHis shirt open to pounceHe waits to announceHis lusty righteous plea.Quick wand you strike his heartNow startled eyes are stillHis mouth loses its prideHis power at last departsStill pour the cup untilThe hauntings opens wide.
That's great Jeanne!!
Hi! This is a sort of sonnet form I've worked a lot in. Taking the 14 lines and considering them as 14 inter-relationships. Looking at the sentence level as if it were a "line," then using subject rhyme to organize those sentences into a "Petrarchan" sonnet structure. I'm not sure it works, but I like it and its a fun way to write. Who is this woman who holds the power of wine and the rod. "How does one succeed in getting under the skin of a decadent? How does one reveal to vulgar people the catastrophic effects of their vulgarity?" And she, looking down her nose at you, there, some late-comer.And she: gun-metal gown sheer and open—breast-feeding the light; the lion knee’d thrown, languors into its own zinc-colored tarnish; behind them, the great open throated mirror, sparking more than her lips made red. "How does one effect any truly radical conversion in people’s consciousness, especially if they are not particularly unhappy? Only it would seem, by producing in them an experience so devastating that our paramount example of it is Saint Paul’s experience on the road to Damascus." She: eyes; censers burn the decaying flowers swung; defiance twice bloomed time strewn at her feet like charred newspaper. This I not the Circe I knew in college. And under her arm in the vanity, creeps the man unchanged—we believe hero? When she received us, all of us pigs, left her, as able husbands. This is not Circe in this painting at all: stiff-backed and false postured for viewing delight. Will you creep or watch the creeper make statues of himself—bracketed by 2 colonnades; or do you take your chances with her and drink. When you come unto love ask her, am I your jackal or swine. *The sentences under quote are from Michael Tanner’s introduction to Twilight of the Idols and The Anti-Christ, by Friedrich Nietzche.
That's great man. Did you invent the form or did you find it?
I would love to claim it, its more of an idea, really. I'm sure other folks have used something similar. I think about form now in terms of relationships between different time sets. Switching what used to be a "line" of iambic pentameter, for a single syllable, sentence, paragraph/verse/or even a whole "poem" set within a series of poems. It's a bit weird maybe, I dunno. It is expanding the definition of time, just like we can expand rhyme from end rhyme to front, exact, syntax and subject(etc.). I'm glad you liked it!
Circeher potions lurethe weary travelersin swine stupor