12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice

• Week 7 • Decuain •

Waking – A Decuain

Thirty was my age when the clench unfurled,
when i woke in small measures to unlace
and pluck the stitches of the tiny, curled
mind yet to be unhooked behind this face.
Awkward, to unspool volume, line and space:
my fingers, still green with their childishness,
slipped, stumbled, left yawning holes to efface
my girlish claim to the wildishness
that overstayed the party till i hurled
it headlong into Calliope’s world.

In the house of the muse the child flowers
separate to me; alongside pain, i find
relief in bifurcation. Lost hours
of life whiled away return to remind
me: till her death, i was beautifully blind,
and where Helios rides it never rains,
and the absence of night narrows the mind.
And the claim that kept me shut tight ingrains
my underside, amongst latticed bowers,
wild imaginings and shadowed towers.

What is a decuain? A decastich poem in iambic pentameter, the rhyme scheme for which can be either a-b-a-b-b-c-b-c-a-a or a-b-a-b-b-c-b-c-b-b or a-b-a-b-b-c-b-c-c-c.
I’ve gone with the first example in this case. For more information and examples, visit The Poet’s Garret.

Tell me wotcha reckon

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This entry was posted on February 12, 2012 by in Decuain, Poetic forms and tagged , , , , , , .

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