I really like this. I find I usually don't love rhyming poetry, but this is deft and creative. The language is bouncy and your word choices make me want to get out my word notebook and write some words down. If this is a muse poem, invoking the muse, I can't help but think it was successful. I like the playfulness and possible connotations -and how it echoes Poe in a way, in rhythm. It's fun but not just. Good stuff.
It's fascinating to me, reading through the comments on this piece, how laden with context a character's proper name can be, provided that people are familiar with that character. Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra indeed!
I can see upon a second reading that I was a bit out in the field, but the first time around I read your poem as an old man decaying in his geriatric fashion, speaking to a granddaughter. A little whimsy, a little burgeoning sun waiting on the cusp of a horizon to strew its rays about the land and claim it. A land to be cared for, a world to be inhabited. And of course, the old relic that he is, inhabiting the wretched wooden shelves of a decrepit home, the grandfather wants to feel the warmth of her presence.
But the others are right. It is better to read the poem with sexuality in mind. Who wants to find beauty in things that are beautiful when one can bleat and suppress the anxiety of being alive with numbing pleasures.
It seems like the piece is laden with sexual undertones, which is just fine. I'm not used to people using an older form of English on here, let alone correctly, so this piece was a nice surprise. Please keep up the good work.
I cannot help but take away a subliminal sexual overtone. Each line is a pseudo for sex. Take for example the blatant use of pleasure- twiget, dawn, purple midget. The 'dances' give it away as well as 'heal me where I lay'.
I do like the over all flow of the piece, abet more so on the tone. I would like to see more from it in terms of length, it does leave a desire to continue. Good job.
I like the use of wicken...
I read the word as if it related to a candle being lit...but an online urban dictionary found a better definition; a hippieish person who hangs out under a tree and acts as an electronic gremlin!
Brigid is an effective muse, by all accounts.
I find her story especially compelling as her faithful followers bent the will of the roman catholic church to include her in their doctrine and dogma.
I believe her to be the divine feminine; a divinity older than christianity who still has sway today.
Quite a lady.
She may not be pleased at being addressed as a purple miget. I certainly would not recommend doing so in the northern UK.
Perhaps the lady retains a spritely spirit of humor...
You may want to weave some rushes and hang her cross in an easterly window, just in case. ;)
(You really dont need a visitation from Brigid to get your poetic boogie shoes on...unless she's already passed by your house and inspired this poem!)
I get a real kick out of the way you call Bridget (your muse?) a purple midget. I really like the poetic prowess of the second verse, I feel like I've had this conversation with my own muse late at night. I guess the third verse sort of answers some of my questions, you depend on your muse to help you speak of better futures. An interesting write that should help with any writers block you may have. Cheers :D