|03-17-2017, 03:39 PM||#1|
Join Date: Jan 2017
The Tragic Romance (Poem, Romance)
Author's Note: Someone recently encouraged me to get writing again, and the "Fine Arts Archive" mentions that poetry is permitted, and while this poem isn't overt in its references to fatness, it's definitely implied, so here goes...
The Tragic Romance
A tale of love which cannot be received,
its nature shunned for no sin or misdeed.
Hear this tragic tale now, and take heed.
How can this be spoken now to you?
A hundred ways there are to be conceived
of how your brilliant beauty's shining through.
I plead, at last, that you will see them too.
Consider the untended flower bud,
'midst others in a field after a frost.
Its leaves around its petals are still crossed,
See how its bud declines to open wide,
like countless others, nestled in the mud,
it also remains closed, as if to hide,
betraying not a hint of what's inside.
The buds are stiff and hard while closed that way,
no beauty to be seen with naked eye.
Some will stay as buds until they die,
their potential kept from them by cold.
Certainly, we face the cold today.
But one out of a hundred will unfold,
or of a thousand; wonder to behold!
It allows itself to grow and open,
spreading out to coat more grass and ground,
its petals spreading out to all around.
The other buds are far too weak to grow.
It rises over them to their chagrin.
As it blooms, they fall beneath its shadow,
staring up, dismayed, from far below.
Larger, stronger, so it flourishes,
yet softer, and more vulnerable it seems,
gaining colors only found in dreams.
Its pleasing beauty then, at last, comes through,
as on the soil below it nourishes,
in a splendid way no bud can do.
For, you see, that wildflower is you.
Consider the secluded, far-off star,
which ages, and begins to grow so bright.
To be too close would give one cause for fright,
for you might face the worst of death and fire.
Yet, many more observe it from afar,
to see its beauty as its flames rise higher.
From havens safe, its brilliance they admire.
Outwardly, the nova swells in power;
its clarity a beam for all to see,
its light and warmth it shares with all for free,
and draws to itself, each wondering eye.
It stands and spreads this very hour,
loveliness and radiance from the sky.
You see, you are the nova, far up high.
Consider now the tides, which every day,
leave the shore with things of charm behind,
grand shells, smooth sand, and foam there is to find,
to tell you something truly great was here.
"This is where the ocean was" they say.
Then soon, the tides rise up to flank the pier,
and water flows around you, calm and clear.
The waves, as they rhythmicly rise and fall,
surround your ankles and your toes alike,
as if through breaths, against your legs they strike;
the breaths of some great titan 'neath each wave.
They soon fully immerse the beach, and all
who dare to stay there; the delighted brave,
basking in refreshments that it gave.
The wonderful sensation; in and out,
which brings to all, relief and wondrous joy.
I saw this marvel even as a boy.
In the dry and sandy world we're in,
those waves give me a reason not to pout.
The ocean is like you; you are akin.
Where love of joy and greatness may begin.
Consider cotton; clean and soft to feel.
Protection from the elements for all,
and made into garments, great and small.
In all of history, a precious aid;
its cherished softness clear in its appeal.
When it dries, we need not be afraid,
from that time on, its size with never fade.
Never will it shrink again, and we
may enjoy the wonder of its touch.
Its feeling felt so easily, so much.
We take hold, and to our skin it clings.
Even when little is there to see,
Its softness and its power are the things,
to keep us warmer than the richest kings.
How much more are we comforted, when more
is present, like a pillow's stuffing full.
In blankets too, it need not envy wool.
Around stiff, bone-like stiches it is sewn,
yet always a delight to every pore,
always warm and never hard like stone.
The likeness of the cotton is your own.
Consider the moon; partner of the night.
Rarely do we see it rise or set.
Suddenly, it's there with no regret.
It dances in our sights along the sky,
a great, unearthly body of such height,
with a radiance to please the eye,
yet not its own; a sign from far on high.
A sign of greater things to come, and yet,
its light is soft and comforting as well;
enough to wrap young lovers in its spell.
Obvious, but not overwhelming light.
Its size and power seem to be a threat,
yet wonderful and subtle, not with fright,
at once majestic and immense with might.
For poets and for dreamers, it has been,
a source of inspiration and of peace.
For miles, visions of its light won't cease.
Beneath it, in the shadow, we can rest.
Exhaustion, found in comfort, rises, then,
under its watch, we dream our dreams with zest.
Our nights are filled with notions that are blessed.
Even when we wake amidst the dawn,
the moon's departure never quite is seen.
No horizon hides the night time's queen.
We can wake from our night's blessed sleep,
stretching for her former place to yawn.
In the night, though dark and very deep,
you are the moon to me, who makes me weep.
Why weep? Surely, from these words you can tell.
For from these very things you always flee.
Each word I say is like a blow to thee,
though each is a homage, it is quite true.
When so much of the world in which we dwell,
testifies to everything I knew,
can't you see the beauty that's in you?
Do your ears, too often, stray to friends
and relatives, ignoring all the Earth?
When nature so pronounces your great worth,
is it truly I who am at fault?
Does the dissatisfaction of your lens,
condemn you, who all other things exalt?
Can it cause stars, and fields, and seas to halt?
Nay! These things show forth what men ignore!
Must you obey; must you be like them?
You, who are so like a precious gem?
Can you bear a loveliness that men
of other kinds will, to their loss, abhor?
Must the flower vanish from the glen?
Must the cotton fade from field and fen?
Must the nova dwindle into naught?
Must the great moon never rise again?
That moon, which once moved ocean tides, and then,
must the ocean dry up into sand?
Is there no further hope to be sought,
of such as you, both beautiful and grand?
Is my tragic romance to be banned?
You won't accept the beauty of your own.
Alone, but undaunted, still will I stand.
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