Long gone are the days when poets would write in a formal style.
Spenserian, Petrarchan, Alexandrian- wait, I don’t know if the last one is real! XD
Nowadays poetry has much looser definitions and you need not have an exact amount of syllables per line in your work to be a poet.
The Chairmaker’s Soul is a poem I’ve been writing the last two weeks, standing at 684 words right now. Inspired by Lovecraft’s Fungi from Yuggoth sonnet cycle, my poem follows similar themes: a protagonist with a willingness to sacrifice for unholy gifts, some ancient device of devilish esoteric nature, an unending curse.
I’ve been surprised, frankly. I thought my desire to write poetry at all had atrophied to nothing, but I’m happy to be proven wrong. The style is kind of in rhyming couplets, sometimes alternating, other times veering off from that to provide a poetic rhythm without formality.
An extract follows below. Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment if you do. 🙂
The Chairmaker’s Soul – an extract
The window, the window promised light
In a dark time, every chair made a compromise
Of self, spirit, talent and damning
Comfort for the upper classes, sitting.
When the machine of interminable routine
Breaks down, inexorable pause, noiseless
Motion within the circle, tiny force
Beyond the twilight lit stone gate of Avalo.
That former forfeiture of humanity
Led to this impasse in evening slavery,
Nightly endeavours past the gate
Formed from stone marked with sigils of fate.
Standing tall, the figure high, grinning teeth
Bared, bloody thousand arms held aloft,
Avalokiteshvara the guardian smiles down;
Keeper of the invisible ringed enclosure.
A bonfire of dreams warms where
The opium bottle runs low, moonfire
Showy over the grotesque legacy of carvings,
A symphony of darkly made human effigies.