This
poem was written in response to a Reverie-challenge from Joseph Harker. The form is decima.
Here’s
what Joseph says, “…As you might guess from the name, ten is the magic number when
it comes to the décima stanza. The form is Latin American, but in my research,
I’m finding reference to it being both Puerto Rican and Ecuadoran…
Structurally, the form
seems pretty straightforward: a stanza of four lines, and then four stanzas of
ten lines each. And then more things: first, the lines have eight syllables
each, but this can be slightly flexible…for this form, you do not have
to choose a particular meter. Second, there is a rhyme scheme that is described
as ABBA ACCDDC. And third, each of the four lines of the first stanza must repeat elsewhere in
each ten-line stanza of the poem. I suppose the easiest variant of this would
be to do the first line in the first stanza, second in the second, etc.”
Here’s
my attempt:
“DECIMA”
Withered hands, permeable, old,
Mem’ry of your touch still lingers,
Time escaping through my fingers,
Tale unraveling, life untold.
Close
we get as days unfold,
Thinner
dreams, sleep lighter, fragile,
Heavy
step, a soul in exile,
Withered
hands, permeable, old.
Night
around me wrapped, being cold,
Balance
on the verge of after,
Keep
on walking, former rafter,
Dry’s
the land where the waters flowed,
Travelling
down the winding road,
Hanging
on to children’s laughter.
Clasp
the thread with failing fingers,
Try
to find the long-sought measure,
What
is it you used to treasure?
Mem’ry
of your touch still lingers.
Mem’ry
of my youth still triggers
Those
emotions softly sleeping
Underneath
the scars and weeping,
By
a dry creek cries a willow,
Through
the tiny jail cell window
Fading
sunshine gently seeping.
Birds
of sunset, mournful singers,
Sing
your praise to days forgotten,
Roots
of which we were begotten,
Time
escaping through my fingers.
In
the dusk I hear bell ringers,
For
my soul the bell is tolling,
Swiftly,
as the night is falling,
Count
the blessings I’ve been given,
Pray
for me, so I’m forgiven,
In
the bells I hear your calling.
Non-repayable
what is owed,
Still
you come to claim your measure,
I
shall bring to you my treasure,
Tale
unraveling, life untold.
Seedlings
coming up strong, behold,
Persevere
must what’s been planted,
Bouts
of woe, no tale enchanted,
Yet
succeeding tearful mourning
Comes
the sun-kissed youthful morning,
Yet
another day is granted.
Live
for the Love of it,
The
Happy Amateur
©
T.H.A.
