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Casting Shadows
| Open Poetry #5 |
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Casting Shadows |
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Skyfyre Senior Member
since 1999-08-15
Posts 1906Sitting in Michael's Lap 
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Fate weaves her web for each of us the same, Without regard for fortune, or for name; And we are made distinct by what we feel: What never touched the heart was never real. Each miniscule detail, each tiny part Of what we do, contributes to the art That is our soul – the thing that will remain When we are gone. In shades of joy and pain, We stain the cloth of life: our hues will stay Long after Time has swept us on our way To take our place as figures of the past. We linger in the shadows that we cast. A face in crowds, a player in a cast Of millions -- yet we hope there will remain A glimmer, should one care to wonder past The picture as a whole. Our deepest pain Is smaller than a grain of sand; the way Of History is, only giants stay Bold in the fore. But, tangled in the art, Invisible, but vital all the same, There stands for every man, unique, a part As singular as is his very name. Each drop of paint helps make the painting real, However insubstantial it may feel. Each waking hour, each dream, each time we feel That all has gone for naught, that sorrow's art Has made its dismal portrait all too real, We must believe that all have felt the same. Yea, even those who bear a noted name Have felt the weight of sadness; for their part, However, it was not allowed to stay. When cold despair would lend its ashen cast Or drape its ragged curtain in our way, Undaunted and aloof we must remain: For round the bloodied whipping-post of pain, There grow exquisite blooms of trials past. We bear the scars, the echoes of a past That make us wonder why we choose to stay; Persistent, proud, we smile despite the pain. We struggle to maintain control, or cast The world aside, ‘til only we remain; And ever at our side, along the way The shadow walks -- mute witness to the part We choose to play. It colors how we feel, This silent shade, though not a man can name It, save in dreams. ‘Tis such a subtle art This watcher works; no two vignettes the same -- And yet, each masterpiece is doubtless real. An artist's rabid fancy, rendered real -- Unruly and untamed in every part -- This canvas that is Life. Never the same From dawn to dusk: no map of how to feel, Or guide to clarify this cryptic art. Our baffled tongues, so desperate to name What brooks no designation, wind their way In stuttered circles. Time meanders past, But stubborn in our silence, we remain To peer at it in puzzlement. We stay Entranced by its allure -- no glance is cast That strays from this hypnotic pallette's pain. The obvious conclusion: life is pain; And yet we strive to find a kinder way To frame our fascination -- brighter cast To splash upon the gray. The time is past When, with a careless heart, we'd gladly stay And wonder if we might achieve the same As those who scrawled that image with their name In scarlet infamy. Are they more real Than we whose colors blend to shade their art? Is then our humble place, our smaller part Unnecessary afterthought? We feel That it is so, yet faithful we remain To this ungrateful entity -- remain Unswerving allies to familiar pain. To save our legacy, we vow to stay And try to leave our mark along the way; That we may not be lost to unsung past Obscured by anonymity's blank cast As thousands went before. They're all the same; Those faceless men who died without a name. Forgotten souls, who chose instead to feel And live as free, ignoring what was real And never striving to secure their part Or win a place in Time's expansive art. With sound and fury charged, with careful art We strive to shape our eulogies the same As those whose brushes played the larger part. Unresting force, a need we cannot name Compels us -- as we age, it seems more real When Death's pernicious fingers we can feel About our throats. A desperate shadow cast That as we fade away, it might remain To whisper quiet secrets of the past -- Of guileless joy, of all-consuming pain -- To lead the next aspiring artist's way That in his heart, some shred of us might stay. No act of man, nor fervent prayer, will stay The hand of Time; our mortal die is cast At birth, and barely wavers on the way. Imperfect born, imperfect we remain: The wages of our sin are paid in pain, A currency assigned in distant past. In feeble words, we capture what we feel Or paint our passion's dream as optic art. If only in the seeming, they are real To us, though other eyes may see the same Depiction, giving it a different name -- The painting, not the picture, is the part That leaves the footprint in the sand. A part Of us may want those looking on to feel As once we did, to understand the name -- The spirit and the flavor of the art -- They gaze upon. Perhaps to taste the same Exuberance that made our fancies real To us, the relics of a cherished past. Infused in ink, alive in paint, we stay; As years and respite strip us of the pain And wrap our souls in warm contentment's cast. Though dust returns to dust, these sparks remain To cast a ghostly light on shrouded way. A vision on the page -- the only way To make your mark upon the future past; When only memories of you remain, Your work ensures that those, at least, will stay Emblazoned on their minds, in reverent cast. As certain as the wound begets the pain, The art reveals it's maker -- makes him real; More real than when he lived -- the deathless part Is larger than the man. The sense of "same" Continues undiminished -- they can feel The shadows of themselves within your art; For but a moment, they will wear your name. No matter where, the place you sign your name, When you are gone, will be the single real Reflection of your soul. The only art Left of its kind; a proud and priceless part Of you, of who you are, of what you feel. Your gift to lonely pilgrims who remain Behind, perhaps to live the very pain You felt so long ago. Along their way, Your legacy may lend a gentler cast To their despair. An ally from the past, A shadow by their side, you'll always stay. When Death has made the artists all the same, Who reads your name becomes the pressing part: For pain dissolves into forgotten past, No longer real. When naught remains to feel, The way of grief has never been to stay. When Kronos' art unmakes us, each the same, The shadow cast is all that shall remain. < !signature--> You cannot choose the way of your death, but the path you choose will determine its own end. [This message has been edited by Skyfyre (edited 01-13-2000).] |
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| © Copyright 2000 Linda Anderson - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Rus Bowden Member
since 2000-01-13
Posts 139 |
Hi Skyfyre, Such an ambitious poem with many great moments and such a remarkable muse to turn to verse. The idea of a painting left behind. You've taken such great care to write a thoughtful and penetrating poem. Persistent, proud, we smile despite the pain. We struggle to maintain control, or cast The world aside, ‘til only we remain; And ever at our side, along the way The shadow walks -- mute witness to the part We choose to play. Rus |
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Nan
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-20
Posts 21191Cape Cod Massachusetts USA |
Ya know, Kess.... Ron was teasing me one day and called me a masochist for doing some of the structured poetry that I enjoy so much.... That was nothing in comparison to a Double Sestina... Folks - this type of poem has been deemed by our fellow poet, jbouder, to be restricted to the clinically insane... I'm not sure if Kess was, but she probably is after doing such a good job on this one... A double sestina is twelve stanzas, each with twelve lines - following a specific recurrent but alternating rhyme scheme (using the same 12 end rhymes in each).... followed by a sestet using all of the same 12 end rhymes - two per line, in a specified order.... Oh - She also developed a great theme, and wrote the poem in iambic pentameter (not mandatory)..... Whatcha think???  |
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Skyfyre Senior Member
since 1999-08-15
Posts 1906Sitting in Michael's Lap |
Hehehe -- insane? Ah well, I suppose I have been called worse. I'll not argue the point -- I doubt it would do me any good anyway.  OK, here's the secret: what I love about these things is that they write themselves, in essence -- you already have an "outline," of sorts, once you choose your end-words, and all you have to do is fill in the blanks. Simple stuff.  Um -- hey Nan? If you're a masochist, what does that make me?  --Kess (the merry lunatic) You cannot choose the way of your death, but the path you choose will determine its own end. |
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jbouder Member Elite
since 1999-09-18
Posts 2534Whole Sort Of Genl Mish Mash |
Nan: Nobody knows who "jbouder is in here", Nan, but thanks for the plug.  It may not take clinical insanity to attempt one of these (as I've suggested in the past) but I can tell you it takes remarkable talent. I don't have time to read it now, Kess, but I promise, I will be back.Jim "If I rest, I rust." - Martin Luther |
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Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
Whew! This is remarkable, Kess! I am speechless and stand in awe of your talent! Unbelieveable!! BRAVO  And I do so much love your iambic pentameter! Denise And slight is the sting of his trouble Whose winnings are less than his worth; For he who is honest is noble, Whatever his fortunes or birth.~~~Alice Cary, ~Nobility~ |
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Terrina Kethryveris Member
since 1999-12-06
Posts 53USA |
Very lovely but you really have to stop writing these, they are so long. LOL Like the references made to us all being the same.Terri Truth be known, fantasy is much more appealing than reality. |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Kess- Ever amazing and challenging at the same time. Quite an intriguing combonation. Beautifully wrought and melded together! |
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Munda Member Elite
since 1999-10-08
Posts 3544The Hague, The Netherlands |
Kess, I can not say it any better than Christopher just did ! Outstanding ! : ) |
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JennyLee Senior Member
since 1999-09-01
Posts 1461Northwestern, NJ. |
Hey Merry Lunatic...I was swept away with this one! Jenny clapping profusely and with vigor Jenny Words bloom like flowers that seem astonished at being born. L. Pirandello 16th Century Dramatist |
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whiskey
since 1999-12-28
Posts 1278Australia |
This is amazing , So good , I really enjoyed it |
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Nan
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-20
Posts 21191Cape Cod Massachusetts USA |
Merry Lunatic - That certainly works... |
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Skyfyre Senior Member
since 1999-08-15
Posts 1906Sitting in Michael's Lap |
Rus: Thank you for taking such care to read into what is undeniably an unusually long poem. Given what I've seen of your talent, I hold your opinion in high regard. Jim: You'd better be back -- 'twas your insanity that framed this sick fascination of mine! LOL Denise: Your awe is a compliment of the highest order. Thank you so much. Terri: your talent for stating the obvious never ceases to amaze me my friend. I shall endeavor to write you some shorter verse to make up for it -- perhaps some haiku? LOL Christopher: Thank you my friend, but were you referring to my poem or myself? LOL Munda: Thank you for your patience in reading and your reply. Jenny: So long as it did not lull you to sleep, I am happy. (Taking a bow at your clapping) LOLwhiskey: Thank you! Nan: yes, it has worked for me for years ... LOL You cannot choose the way of your death, but the path you choose will determine its own end. |
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Not A Poet Member Elite
since 1999-11-03
Posts 3885Oklahoma, USA |
Kess, I'm so sorry and embarrassed  Way back when you first posted this I said I would get back to it. Well, blame it on a failing memory ~blushes~ but I completely forgot. Fortunately my wife asked whatever happened to that other double sestina, sparking my memory like magic. Well, I looked it up, printed it for her and read it, finally.I believe you have fully tamed the monster (a term I believe Jim applied to it when he first suggested the thing). This is just incredible. I am absolutely astonished that you can maintain such color while staying with the subject for 150 lines, not to mention your perfect meter. Extreme congratulations for an outstanding poem my lady and please accept my sincere appology for being so late.  Anyway, this deserved to be brought back up another time for those who might have missed it the first time around. Pete What terms shall I find sufficiently simple in their sublimity -- sufficiently sublime in their simplicity -- for the mere enunciation of my theme? Edgar Allan Poe |
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Munda Member Elite
since 1999-10-08
Posts 3544The Hague, The Netherlands |
Thank you Pete for bringing this back to my attention. It left me in awe the first time and you know what? It stil does! Geesh Linda, how your poetry is missed on these blue pages! |
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passing shadows Member Empyrean
since 1999-08-26
Posts 45577displaced |
I ws about to click back in the middle of this, not realizing how long it was...but worth the stay to read through |
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