Doubt: A Sonnet

Oh, which wish whispered within the willow
would choke the ties that bind me to torment
in Lethean streams, where my fruits are sent
into the torrent of a pathless flow?

In innocence - reveal what's below
do scriptures, in some minds set permanent,
yet are such words the factors prominent
to the cleansing of that we do not know?

Or do our eyes not shed tears in blindness
but in revelation, for all is not
painted by the oil of loneliness?

Is Joy's foundation so supremely got
from satisfaction of the simple word
while rustlings of the leaves remain unheard?


© Cecil Field

Ardor.

I


When into my vision
she drifts - my soul
shatters to a thousand
thousand splinters,
each breeding its own
desire to disenchant
me further still.

My fragile sense withers -

A Bathing Place - Albert Moore

weak as the aged
branch that has seen
a many hundred
autumns.
While my yearning
rises to inebriated
heights,

I struggle to conceal
pulsated clamors
from the journeying
breeze -

for only bawls;
my lyric in silence
stagnates
as the infernos of
my heart burn
visibly,
and my thoughts fall
as rain upon the
marshes beside the
Styx -
denied their
congregation.

My stare in blindness
- choked by the
vines of desire and
torn by the thorns
of truth - reveals the
weakness of my passion
as I drown in the
languor of the
pools of her
eyes.



II


How I long for
somnolence beneath
solitude and shadow
of an all enchanted
willow, the blanket
that smothers
all my strains,

neglects all futures
and eternities for
tranquil ignorance -

Water Willow - Dante Gabriel Rossetti

feeding the immediate
flame.
To bathe blankly
beneath its bosom,

welcome in my dreams
to flirt upon my
fancy - to climb with
them to places
mankind has seldom
seen  in lifetimes or
in Paradise.

Among the clouds where
torture's slain let my
piteous form be greeted
by a hope of
all gentility -
to gaze upon passed
sorrow's mourning archways
with nothing but
disdain.


© Cecil Field   

Where Beauty Dwells.

A cliff edge,
met by the
hungry tide
all dusks and
dawns,

in drear and halation,

in pique and affinity.

In harmonious existence,
structural chaste observes

A Classical Beauty - John William Godward

the waves and currents
of Poseidon's reign
ignorant of tyranny.

Pillars of pure lillies
line marble halls of
maidenhood,

mists of myrrh clothe the
air.

The beguiling of the
senses to opiated
indifference,

to seek the
sacred font, beheld
in vision though
seemingly divine
- although
in earthly body.

Beside kneel the
desired - guarded by
those they worship
throughout their hours
of continuance,

of virtue -

untouched bloom
that Cupid denies our
passion.



© Cecil Field  

The Valley

The chasm lows
the land that
splits hill
to hill,

shadows spread
across the
streams
in tranquil sleep -

shadows that deny the Sun
to stare within.

Though the blanket
of shadows heeds no
misfortune,
the shade welcomes
comfort
with a gesture of
its will -

Le Chant d'Amour - Sir Edward Burne-Jones

soothing the symphonies
of time
and
nurturing the soil
Platonic
for the
flora's blossoming.

Bewitched by a
radiance of
histories that
ignites
immortal bliss;

exceeding moonlight's
serene enchantress.

Nightingale sings -
echoes
in the trees
and kissing
the streams -
raising the
waterlily
from slumber.

As the waterlily would
raise the lost soul
from dislocation,

virile
amour conquers in
its mysteries,

while the savage
of portentous
lust meets
its last breath.

© Cecil Field

The Dreamer.

The divine holds no
equal stare -
it extols the
dreamer that
wishes to embalm
their spirit
in enraptured
flame.

Beside fountains

The Bath of Psyche - Frederic Lord Leighton

empyrean,
dreamers please
deities with hymns
that fable fantasy -
though to deny
virtue would fetch
omens.

Imagination in
cadence, see the
dreamer climb to
Olympian heights
and remain for
eternities
once Expiration's
curtain has
been drawn.

For the dreamer to
remain may bring
descent; a fate
salvaged in unfavourable
mines toiled by
the pathless,

and see the dreamer's
dreams echo despair
with no beauties
as they expire.

Within the dreams -
the wings of an immortal
verse - celestial as the
deities themselves -
deserved of the
fountains.

Messengers to the pathless
that travail, to supplant
their drudgeries with
embers of hope.

Throughout lonely lusts and
broken devotions,
fuelled by reminiscences
and ecstacies;

the dreamer's ascent
to Olympian peaks

to dream upon the
dreamt of.



© Cecil Field  

In Sleep.

Dormant, the wistful wings
of poesy -
the scribe of verse in
nurtured domains.

Within the realms of churches
exist no stones
inscribed with the memories
of the reaped -

just embraces of eternities,

Such Sights as Youthful Poets Dream - Walter Crane

whereby the mellow strains
of lyric sought,

the seeds of the symphonies
of the soul's harp
and illustrious images of
illuminated ideal.

A shrine of the passion,
as that of the entwined
bodies of the consumed,

as that of the kindling
of brotherhoods that
endure lifetimes.

Quench tender cravings with
the languor of rosy lips
and echoes of ecstacies about
the deepest caverns of the
soul,
the excesses of the
dream.



© Cecil Field 

Consumed.

Isle of salvation, quench our barren
throats,
we watched as mercifully you
upon the far horizon came, and
felt the fruits teasing our souls
before stone eloped with sand.

I sought the mercy swift -
to all I'd be the saviour.

I pledged against temptation,
vanity or lust - for my soul was
in the hands of another hundred
souls, one hundred souls
expectant.

Though bracelets of the
Narcissi

Hylas and the Nymphs - John William Waterhouse

upon my wrists were bound.

The hopeful waters mirrored
the candles of the
almighty lamp - hanging
low in a setting sky,
possessing still a strength
and stubborn fortitude.

Littered was the iris, in
patterns unassembled,

my image in the pond
a grace ethereal -

Long tresses came to meet it,
mirroring the rushes,
yet faces of a beauty
the rush shall not possess,
not for all the jewels
of royalties.

All they stared,
eyes azures,
emeralds
and maroons,

seven - as the stars of damozels -
staring from life's well,
I let them guide
me forth,
into their tempting
depths
to drown within their
charms.

While all about the
willows
crescendo-ed ceaseless
cry

while all did weep my
passing

the waterlily hid


the truth,


the secrecy.



© Cecil Field

Threaded Tears.

I know you weep,
though what for
you weep
don't know.

A well of angel's
tears
in remembrance of
more pleasant hours,

ascend from crimson to
the tributaries,

Idle Tears - Edward Robert Hughes

while you gaze upon fresh,
blushed harvests
that reminisce of spent
childhoods.

Your sadness pure
as the first stroke
of dawn's
paintbrush,

the water of your eyes
refreshing as all
monumental moments -

As ancient dynasties
waking from their
slumber.

Though haunting as the
last gasp of
breath,
or the cries of the
crow at midnight -

your innocence but a memory
in unforgiving time.






© Cecil Field

With Northern Winds

New form.



With Northern Winds


By all who prise
over Mother Earth,
upon Boreas I indulge

Boreas - John William Waterhouse

as your echo
meets my
stride.

Journeyed from Northern
peaks,
all valleys and fields
greet you as
four full moons passed.

We are defenceless
to your
messages;
all gates remain
ajar
and the brick
has ceased to be.

Within the pathways
of your reign
we are forgotten -
but by laments
seek selfish
truths.

Beset by drear -
haunted by
Maenadan calls.

My fortune lies
in Theronian chains
beneath the
interstice
of a revered
charioteer
concealing deceit.

His bosom lyre strummed
"I adore mankind free of temptation"
yet did beneath

Love's Passing - Evelyn De Morgan

storm clouds.

My candle fades as
I dream of its
rise,
beside root Summer
trees of
opportunities
as they bloom, yet
my heart shall not.

The daffodil that
garlands my tresses
speaks now of extinction
not only its own;

I hear the wind
a - whisper
beneath my velvet veil
"your love
shall swim again
within
Elysian streams."



© Cecil Field

Nameless

Great and entrusted oak, you look upon
Decay. Even now, in your silent sleep
Are circumstances that would see you wish
For the ancient beauty of your roots, to
Hear the roaring of the gallant galleys
Upon a soft sea of salutation
Sound within your girth, though many miles far.
Aged - still firm; possessing a majesty
Over all others that dwell among you.
Our bards chant tunes that are best forgotten;
Their weary lyres strum forsaken strains
Of nothingness, that whisper to no ears
Of the sublime power that saw you rise
To be among the lowest lying clouds,
To hear the symphony of the lark
As it dwells in radiance upon a
Branch that cradles the Summer leaves
That with Autumn take their departure bold.
What does humanity possess but the
Broken strings and the much dissipated
Memories of time? No longer does the
Birdsong soothe or haunt, no longer does
Its echo resonate wonder or woe,
No longer do they gaze on pastures green
And feel the purity grace their solitudes.
Among the bowers just a loneliness
As the greenery's ignored. On the Seas
The tides conduct their deeds without an
Acknowledgement, for beauty is forgot
By those that seek their laments among lies -
The etchers of the scriptures of falsehoods.


© Cecil Field

Autumn Leaves - Sir John Everett Millais