My Lyre Is Tuned To Mourning

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic


Poem

Submitted: March 21, 2018

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Submitted: March 21, 2018

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MY LYRE HAS TURNED TO MOURNING

(Job 30-31)

By A. Guinevere Kern

Copyright A. Kern 1986

 

What shall be my metaphor of sorrow?

The venom packed in Cleopatra's snake?

Sunlight striking her vain, mute cymbals

Upon the frosted windowpane?

The cyanide foment in Rasputin's tea?

The spiny ice

On Himalaya's roof, which knows no kiss

Of flesh, not ever?

Babe, I am the ruby in Buddha's eye

Weeping its red loneliness

All the infidel night

For your return.

I am the goddess of sad, black notes

The composer forbears, lest

His symphony sound unduly melancholy.

Listen, Jester!

I am wailing,

In the granite halls of your soul

Where last you led me.

I have become Sister

To gamy nightbeasts

Who petition the haughty moon

To illuminate them, to grant

Their topaz eyes a body, a validity.

They howl, bereft.

My topaz eyes are full of storms.

~copyright 1986


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