so, a little bit about this poem. It's an assignment I had to do for school, where we were expected to write a pastiche. A pastiche is an artistic work (in my case a poem) that imitates the style of another work. I decided to imitate Keat's poem 'To autumn', which I have included below my poem. It was quite difficult, especially due to the rhyme scheme! Hope you enjoy x
TO THE NIGHT
Stuffing the corners and swallowing the edges whole
Tangy orange blossoming on pink gums
As the black spills and splatters and splashes; slow, transitive coal
That eats away the distant, whispering what it means to get lost in all this murk, to forget some
Fingers dipped into the ethereal black
The sterling metal moon is expelled from womb
Fresh still shimmering with silver amnion
Sailing the star-caressed seas, unaware of what and whom
And whether his knack
For settling into the black
Is something to do with lying and settling into oblivion
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy clouds?
Spiffing and misting, spiffing and misting whoever seeks shall see thee
the cellophane-palmed artist that (pain)ts, the brush round
poised tip tasting the what one will not see
white canvas fingers drawing careful winding lines
the silvered sheen of winding pathways kissed by moon light
and the shifting stale-grey ghosts that linger on beneath
thy pupils bulging, eyes misted over, foggy delicate insight
the butterfly beats on the left of thy chest pines
for what lies beyond the design
as thou watchest the last oozings till hair turns snow, scouring for what lies underneath.
where are the lights? Ay, where are they?
disappeared into the ink, lost in the dusk
golden liquid trickled into the cracks, gone astray
the blue dissolved into seas; now a husk
of what used to be, the tendrils knotted and cast away
but the slivers escape through the twisted lines
out of the glass and into the soot
morning retrospection; in the fingers it entwines
here to stay, watch the golden blades ricochet
think not of them, thou hast thy display
the leaves whisper, treble soft- silence - stays put.
seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.