night horse

[heslopian]

when waking, like an animal, upon
summer's motherly call, the day people,
who strive and connect, without asking why,
view again the glades, and tranquil lakes, I
lie in wait for winter's breath, cold and tinged
with a lecher's disdain, eager to show
me his landscapes, like an art student,
zealous but talented. and so, with grim
and mournful heart, when my time does befall,
I stumble through this dense forest, like a
painted hall; dark wing of a hospital,
each tree a door concealing pain, until
I find you here again, my companion, my
sole survivor, my one other night horse.

i missed this one

i'd liked to have seen a decent rhyme scheme.
other than that if you didn't know it was a sonnet it wouldn't make a difference. you told addy what it was about but none the less i'll reply as what i took from it.;

at first it felt werewolvish. i dismissed vampyre's
then as i read it it the imagary led me to think of unicorns. (i'm not tripping, honestly)
it has a longing ingrained in the words and images.
and only one simile.

the poem itself is quite compelling.
thanks for the read jack.

Thanks for the feedback, Billy Yeah, I did originally want a consistent rhyme scheme, but I was having so much trouble measuring the syllables, whilst also maintaining syntax, that I became lazy. See, now this is why I prefer free verse; they're nowhere near as much hard work! And my metrical measurements still blew up in my face; hence the few sporadic internal rhymes: a slapshod way of trying to affect rhythm.

Actually there were three similes: "like an animal," "like an art student" and "like a painted hall," but even that's not as many as I usually use! That overkill of comparison is something I've picked up from Sexton and Plath, I think; most of their poems have at least one simile.

Yeah, people on DU have talked about black stallions, mythical creatures, and all these other great images which never really crossed my mind; I thought my narrative was simply about two manic depressives in love. Reminds me of something that Harold Bloom, an American critic, said about how a reader perceives poetry, that their interpretation "may differ from the author's and be equally valid - it may even be better."