(no subject)

[choco_frosh]

I stand below,
call her to me:
she turns around,
I hear her sing.

She is not free
to come and go:
A rope’s the thing
with which she’s bound.

Sisters and she
dance in a ring,
but turn no toe,
no maypole’s wound.

Speaks to the King,
yea, even he—
Sings when he’s crowned
sings at his woe.

Soars without wing,
hunts without hound
turns without key
strikes without foe.

Touches no ground
in her dancing,
turns to and fro
where none can see.

She can astound
both great and low;
tidings can bring,
or aimless be.

Now fast, now slow
comes her song’s sound
down to where we
stand listening.

I stand below,
call her to me:
she turns around,
I hear her sing.

--Elizabeth Crownfield, in The Clapper 6.2, Feb. 1979

Comments

[sovay]

Have you recited this? I associate it with you, but can't remember reading it.

[choco_frosh]

Have you recited this?
Nope.

[sorcyress]

It's a lovely poem! Thank you for sharing

[lauradi7dw]

Possibly in the sublime to ridiculous department, Great George of Bristol's twitter feed has this thread (you shouldn't need to have a login to see it)
https://twitter.com/GreatGeorgeWMB/status/1077844903869190144

My favorite later verse is:
A dried-up gudgeon goes chafe, chafe, chafe.
[Chafe chafe chafe] ×2
A dried-up gudgeon goes chafe, chafe, chafe.
All day long.