Cruit mo Chruidh
A bit of sap with a maddeningly simple little rhyme scheme. The title means "harp of my heart," and I'm posting this because it holds a particular, very happy meaning for me today.
Shadows pool softly in hollows of skin,
And flow from the places where fingers have been;
She hungers to know his low music again,
But the night is a harpstring pulled tightly, and thin.
The silks in her chamber are cold as the air,
And the bolster beside her, unbearably bare--
She closes her eyes, and she looks on him there,
With his arm round her waist, and the moon in his hair.
But the dawn is a ship that comes, ghostly and grey,
On the tide of the morning to bear him away
And the unraveled dream gives its threads to the day,
Like the strings of a harp left too lonesome to play.
Shadows pool softly in corners and halls,
And silence hangs heavy from tapestried walls
But she knows the low music the instant it falls,
For the night always sings when it answers his call.
And no dream that might fade is it falls with her there,
With his arm round her waist, and the moon in his hair;
He has cradled his harp with the tenderest care,
And the night swells to life with the music they share.
Shadows pool softly in hollows of skin,
And flow from the places where fingers have been;
She hungers to know his low music again,
But the night is a harpstring pulled tightly, and thin.
The silks in her chamber are cold as the air,
And the bolster beside her, unbearably bare--
She closes her eyes, and she looks on him there,
With his arm round her waist, and the moon in his hair.
But the dawn is a ship that comes, ghostly and grey,
On the tide of the morning to bear him away
And the unraveled dream gives its threads to the day,
Like the strings of a harp left too lonesome to play.
Shadows pool softly in corners and halls,
And silence hangs heavy from tapestried walls
But she knows the low music the instant it falls,
For the night always sings when it answers his call.
And no dream that might fade is it falls with her there,
With his arm round her waist, and the moon in his hair;
He has cradled his harp with the tenderest care,
And the night swells to life with the music they share.
Submitted by Summer at 6:43 PM
5 Comments:
I really believe there is yet to be some life squeezed from the art form of poetry, and though I hardly ever read contemporary prose that I enjoy, you're one of the authors that never fails to surprise me. It's really lovely, Summer.
I had a little trouble with the line "And no dream that might fade is it falls with her there." I'm loathe to suggest it might be a typo, or just some tricky grammar that I couldn't get quickly enough to keep from interfering with the flow of reading, but I will say that, as I went through the poem, I was noticably snagged at that point.
Still, it's a lovely poem, and I wouldn't sell myself short with assertions of "simplicity," were I you. We know you too well to be caught in those traps.
Summer...simply beautiful. I especially liked the imagery of the 3rd verse, with the dream unravelling and lending it's thread to the day. As i was reading over the whole poem a second and third time, i realized that the imagery of a string was constantly being put in my mind, that every verse evoked an image of long thin shimmering thread, whether it be of a harp, or of hair, or of a fabric - and it made me wonder if it was subconscious or intentional. Is there something about that image of a thread or strand that symbolizes love to you?
The metaphor I was consciously trying to evoke throughout was that of the harp, but I think the "thread/string" imagery ended up going along with that... somewhere between a poetic device and a happy accident. :)
The idea for the love/harp comparison is that it's something that has to be tended to, cared for and carefully crafted, or else it lies dormant--the very soul and purpose of it can be lost if it's left alone. On the other hand, once love is in its proper place, and treated as it's meant to be, it becomes one of the most beautifully effortless, harmonious things in the universe.
Or somethin'.
This is gorgeous Summer. Your sap is delicious. What an odd thing to say. Anyways, as always your words flow over your meter like music and paint vivid emotional images. I love the harp metaphor. In reading it the first time I had thought it was her that was the harp. "his arm round her waist...cradled his harp with the tenderest care" I miss you constantly Summer, but I am happy that you have found this part of your life. You seem more complete now than I have ever known you. Now get working on that album, damn you!
She IS the harp. *grins*
Very perceptive, padawan.
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