[poems] Mountain Lover, Untitled
Two poems for you, because otherwise, I might end up being--gasp!--productive tonight.
"Untitled" is my favourite, and also desperately needs to be read. Because I hope it will make you grin as badly as it made me grin. :D
Untitled
It may be a bit gross,
But I kind of thought
That I ought to let you know:
If you take the time
And get everything set
Just right
When you go belching out in the snow,
It looks like steam is coming
From your nostrils
And sounds
Like a dragon’s roaring.
"Mountain Lover" came courtesy of the hot weather we had up here the other day, which led to lots of melting and my weird thought processes being weird.
Mountain Lover
As I lower her finally
To her funereal ledge below,
I listen to the trickle-down
Of swiftly-melting snow.
It froths and burbles,
Joining, there,
The throng of maidens
With cloud-white hair
And the gathering crowd
That murmurs and hums
Sings their blood to a boil,
Their tune a steady thrum.
I lower her down
Into that deep crevasse,
That summer tunnel,
Carved by years of winters passed.
“Did you love her?” the mountain cries.
“Of course!” I shout,
And wait.
But there is no reply.
Standard requests apply: please read and tell me what you think. English Major is still working on English Majory Techniques, etc.
"Untitled" is my favourite, and also desperately needs to be read. Because I hope it will make you grin as badly as it made me grin. :D
Untitled
It may be a bit gross,
But I kind of thought
That I ought to let you know:
If you take the time
And get everything set
Just right
When you go belching out in the snow,
It looks like steam is coming
From your nostrils
And sounds
Like a dragon’s roaring.
"Mountain Lover" came courtesy of the hot weather we had up here the other day, which led to lots of melting and my weird thought processes being weird.
Mountain Lover
As I lower her finally
To her funereal ledge below,
I listen to the trickle-down
Of swiftly-melting snow.
It froths and burbles,
Joining, there,
The throng of maidens
With cloud-white hair
And the gathering crowd
That murmurs and hums
Sings their blood to a boil,
Their tune a steady thrum.
I lower her down
Into that deep crevasse,
That summer tunnel,
Carved by years of winters passed.
“Did you love her?” the mountain cries.
“Of course!” I shout,
And wait.
But there is no reply.
Standard requests apply: please read and tell me what you think. English Major is still working on English Majory Techniques, etc.