Some find my death beautiful
in all the colours of autumn
bringing joy to grey days.
Others find it sad -
the sign of long nights in winter's embrace.
The fall banished fear out of my pores.
The feeling of helplessness
while being carried by the wind
opened my mind for a different reality.
Acceptance is not giving in
or giving up
it's choosing another path
where my heart's longing
and my peace of mind will be found.
The decay commands all,
and that fact cannot be denied or ignored.
I will become dust sooner than some,
and when the wind will cradle me in its arms
I will be reaching for the stars.
I have to leave it all behind -
the chattering of the birds,
and the warm kiss of sunshine -
the tender touch of a ladybird,
and a wet sensation of a raindrop -
the joy of a sunrise
and sadness of a cloudy night
denying me the magic of starlight.
I have to let it all go
for it was never mine to own.
I am ready now to say goodbye,
welcoming the last sleep
and the darkness that will turn into light
~ Iva
11 Jun 2020
Two poems to compare: William Shakespeare's My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun and Bartholemew Griffin - My Lady's hair
For this reading I am going to read two poems the first is typical of the period and the second for comparison is by Shakespeare.
I will pass no judgment but let you decide which you prefer.
My ladies hair
By Bartholomew Griffin. Published 1596
My Lady's hair is threads of beaten gold;
Her front the purest crystal eye hath seen;
Her eyes the brightest stars the heavens hold;
Her cheeks, red roses, such as seld have been;
Her pretty lips of red vermilion dye;
Her hand of ivory the purest white;
Her blush AURORA, or the morning sky.
Her breast displays two silver fountains bright;
The spheres, her voice; her grace, the Graces three;
Her body is the saint that I adore;
Her smiles and favours, sweet as honey be.
Her feet, fair THETIS praiseth evermore.
But Ah, the worst and last is yet behind :
For of a griffon she doth bear the mind!
Sonnet 130 - My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
William Shakespeare
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
8 Jun 2020
William Shakespeare - Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed (Sonnet 27)
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
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