The Mattle & The Poet

Oh, hello, you all!! (And Happy Holidays!!! ^^ The Christmas season is upon us!!!!) These past few days have been some delightfully interesting days — what with me having discovered this wonderful thing called mochi, having stumbled upon some beautifully nonsensical poetry, and perhaps staying up till 2 am reading said nonsensical poetry! *grins wildly*

Now, while whenever I’m not doing any novel-writing, I always enjoy writing a good (or perhaps not so good) piece of free verse poetry!! It’s fun, it’s low-pressure, and I can pretty much break a whole lot of grammar rules in poetry. Who wouldn’t like it?? XD

And so, today I thought I would share two pieces of free verse poetry I wrote last night!! ^^ These two pieces are dubbed The Mattle and The Poet. Both were written when I was delirious at 2 am, and I suppose it shows. 🙂 Enjoy!!

~ ~ ~

THE MATTLE

a nonsense poem

The skilly leaves were singing in the dead frivel
And the nonagh joined in with their songs on the kisty and the bog and the li and the ri.
The moths spittered with their wings and the wind while the nin whistled and skittered.
A skattle-muck, as one might jattle, as they heaved their smishly hoofas away.
Yes, a skattle-muck, that’s what they say, and the townspeople shall jattle and riffle the kipple away
Till finally the miramirg rises
And the face appears high in the mattle.
Yes, till the miramirg rises, and the face appears nigh to the sky.

~ ~ ~

I had such a fun time writing this poem, and I was very much inspired by Lewis Carroll’s The Jabberwocky, which is another nonsense poem. I’ve actually wanted to write a nonsense poem for quite some time but wasn’t able to figure out how!!

After all… write a poem that made no sense at all??

How was that possible???

Well, it certainly is possible and is indeed quite nonsensical.

Do I know what a nonagh and a kisty and a skattle-muck and a miramirg are?

Yes.

Yes, I do, surprisingly.

Are you all just going to have to be left to guess for yourself what a nonagh, a kisty, a skattle-muck, and a miramirg are?

Yes. Yes you are.

~ ~ ~

THE POET

a dark poem

There lives a poet
In a dark old cottage.
Where vines wrap themselves tight round the walls,
And an eerie black smoke
Drifts out from the chimney,
The forest dances
It sings around it.
The wild and the danger, the old and the young,
Yes, there lives a poet, in a dark old cottage.

The poet is young
But old as the trees
Her face is fair
Dark hair frames
her porcelain white cheekbones,
But her soul is ancient
Knows secrets unbound,
Her onyx black eyes
Hold wisdom unfound.

Her days are spent
In the vine-wrapped walls
of that cottage,
Surrounded by pages and pages and pages.
Her words, they twist, they whisper, they snake,
Through the air and into your ears,
bearing tales dark and old and twisted and true,
and her tales go, somewhat like this:

Deep in the woods
where the trees and shadows twist and bleed
so much you cannot tell the difference
between tree and black shadow,
there lives a king,
dark and old.
He hides in the woods, golden eyes glinting,
awaiting any
who dare wander in.
What does he do, you may ask with baited breath,
does he skin the flesh from children and burn them alive?
No, my dear, no, I would answer then.
For no one ever
seems to agree.
For his only duty is to grant one wish
to each wanderer, who dares stray in.
A wish, any wish! Of your heart’s greatest desire!
But beware for he is the king of the woods.
His words are poison, his heart dark.
He may grant you your wish, aye, he may.
But beware, for his words are known to be
more twisted even than the thorny vines of the woods where he resides.
Aye. Deep in the shadows of the woods, there lies a king,
to grant the wishes
of those foolish enough to dare.

Yes.
There lives a poet, in a dark old cottage.
And at the end of the day, she sets down her pen,
and watches as the red sun dies,
leaving behind only the dark night,
and the mere shadow of a woman, sitting,
waiting.
And when the sun rises, she starts again.
Yes. There lives an old poet, in the dark, twisted, woods.

~ ~ ~

Even re-reading this poem still gives me chills. I wrote this at 2 am, when the mere phantom of this idea about a poet in a cottage floated into my head and I decided I wanted to write one last poem before heading to bed. And though I wasn’t expecting the poem to be this dark, I am pleasantly surprised with it!

I actually wrote another nonsense poem a few days after writing these two, so do let me know down in the comments if you’d like me to share it!! (It has since been dubbed The Hittle-Tattle) And seeing as it is already 11 PM here, and I have an early morning to wake to, I must take my leave. Farewell, all you lovely readers!!! And may you have a wonderful, wintry, warm Christmas!!!

Till next time,

-Isabelle