Dew

your eyes- a little drop of liquid ice
all colors painted glassy joys galore
the moon, with her lunar tints didn’t suffice
spill light to glitter, sparking secret lore

awash on autumn leaves, sweetly asleep
your voice, all silken, lilts low music cold
i touch, you leave pure traces on dry lips
o prettiness! my heart, here, have i sold!

though wet, you sew lucky iridescence
break half-red spheres, in crystal mornings lit
bloom- my irises speak efflorescence
of moments past, with whispers silent knit

tell me, dear, your price, my l’il liquid ice
adorn my Soul in gleaming auric sighs

©Mohana Das

Linked to D’verse Form For All

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17 thoughts on “Dew

  1. This is very interesting and quite unusual – both a sonnet and an ode in its way to morning dew – actually the dew drops which become almost cosmic in your hands…and quite as beautiful!

    The Shakespearean/Elizabethan form works well here and nearly all your lines are truly iambic. I have to smile that many of your comments were about the “iris” line. That line truly breaks the rhythm of the poem and is not iambic at all but breaks all the meter (and yet doesn’t this cause its beauty to stand out from the rest of the poem? –what a delight!)

    I love that you absorbed the form and then carefully strayed from it – to make it uniquely yours. Very fine.

  2. THOU bid’st!—”my purple slumbers fly!” Day’s radiance pours upon my eye, I wake—I live! the sense o’erpays, The trivial griefs of early days. What! tho’ the rose-bud on my cheek Has shed its leaves, which late so sleek, Spoke youth, and joy—and careless thought, By guilt, or fear, or shame un-smote: My blooming soul is yet in youth, Its lively sense attests the truth. O! I can wander yet, and taste The beauties of the flow’ry waste; The nightingale’s deep swell can feel, Whilst from my lids the soft drops steal; Rapt! gaze upon the gem-deck’d night, And mark the clear moon’s silent flight; Whilst the slow river’s crumpled wave Repeats the quiv’ring beams she gave. Not yet, the pencil strives in vain, To wake upon the canvas plain, All the strong passions of the mind, Or hint the sentiment refin’d; To its sweet magic yet I bow, As when Youth deck’d my polish’d brow. The chisel’s feath’ry touch to trace, Thro’ the nerv’d form, or soften’d grace, Is lent me still. Still I admire, And kindle at the Poet’s fire— My torch, at Della Crusca’s light, And distant follow his superiour flight. O Time! since these are left me still, Of lesser thefts e’en take thy fill: Yes, steal the lustre from my eye, And bid the soft Carnation fly: My tresses sprinkle with thy snow, Which boasted once the auburn glow; Warp the slim form that was ador’d By him, so lov’d my bosom’s Lord— But leave me, when all these you steal, The mind to taste, the nerve to feel! ANNA MATILDA. Aug. 4, 1787.

  3. What a beautiful tribute to the beauty of the dew drops. And I am impressed with the form–a very hard thing for me to write in form. Nice work!

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