Rumi Petersen, poetry, 2023
There’s a blissful clearing in the wood;
though small I find it passing good
and I know the world rejoin I should
yet I’d rather linger in the wood.
The trees around me stand right tall;
the clearing fifteen feet in all
and ‘round its edge I’ve built a wall
(in the dead of night I fear its fall)
I held my lover in that place
between three trees; a sacred space
and gazing at her joyous face
beheld my haven’s easy grace
and leave this place I haven’t since
though my lover I could not convince
and looking back I ofttimes wince
at how I failed to play the prince.
But follow her I do not dare
to a world that lays my sorrows bare
and in its cruel, unfeeling snares
snuffs out like flame my loves and cares.
So soft within this place I stay
where streams do lap and pine trees sway
and where the mice and squirrels play;
It’s here I while away my days.
I stretched a drum with skins of deer
and played it loud for all to hear
so should a passer-by draw near
they’d join me if they had not fear.
and lo! A traveler did come!
drawn swiftly here by beating drum
and with them brought a lyre to strum
which added to the party’s sum.
Soon more were called to join our dance
by choice or force or random chance
and here—in fervor thus entranced—
we twirl and sing and madly prance.
and though my guests may seem bewitched
though fast to leave they do not twitch
and though their natures may seem switched
does not this joyous life seem rich?
We dance in sun and pouring rain;
in Bacchal joy need not be sane
in laughter’s stock we only gain
as decades fly by free from pain
a grinning horde that ever sings
and only speaks of joyous things;
of haven here I am called king;
a madman’s dream, a faerie’s ring.
Yet should I thusly end my tale
your eager ears I’d think I failed
for though my court I have regaled.
in lonely nights I’ve also wailed.
For once the party ran its course
and once our singing throats grew hoarse;
yes, once they dubbed the dance a curse
my comrades left by foot or hearse.
But leave my home I still could not
(indeed, I barely had the thought)
for here—the paradise I wrought—
alone is where I’m bound to rot.
My bones the passing time wears thin
as fungus clings to wrinkled skin
and mem’ries of her I softly spin
as this clearing I remain within.