Fic & Poetry: Roundelay: G
Jan. 19th, 2020 09:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmes_minorTitle: Roundelay
Length: 500 (prose + poem)
Characters/Pairing: Lestrade/Lomax the sublibrarian
Rating: G
Notes: the roundelay was inspired by Georgia O'Keefe's watercolour Train at Night in the Desert, 1916.
Summary: Lestrade misinterprets a poem.
“Glad I caught you before you closed up.”
“Inspector! I wasn’t certain you’d even get my message.”
“Cartwright’s a clever chap. Here you go.”
“Thank you for returning it. I apologise. Lending a book, then immediately asking for it back, it’s all terribly embarrassing.”
“Something in here you wanted to retrieve?”
“Yes. Something important, something left by mistake.”
“Poem?”
“Yes.”
“Yours. In your hand, that is...”
“Well…”
“I read it. I liked it. I think I even understood it. May I?” He made a gesture to the space beside Lomax.
“Thank you. Yes. There’s no one about.”
Lestrade moved silently around the side of the counter.
Lomax turned towards him.
Without a word, Lestrade gripped Lomax and threw him bodily into the corner of the wide stone pillar. He covered Lomax’s body with his own and roughly kissed the lips parted in astonishment.
When Lestrade pulled away, he whispered gruffly in Lomax’s ear,
“Not the milk train at all, you see.”
The book was still pressed to Lomax’s chest.
“Mister Lomax?”
Lomax’s eyes and mouth formed round saucers of surprise.
Lestrade released him.
Lomax took up his original position behind the counter while Lestrade tucked himself as tightly as possible against the stone.
“Master Haverstock?”
“You’ve saved me, Mister Lomax! That’s the book? The poem’s still there?”
“Yes. The person who borrowed it kindly returned it this evening.”
“Then I can turn in my assignment in the morning. Whew! I worked so hard on it, and my tutor would never believe I lost it at the library. Might as well say the dog ate it. Thanks for copying it for me, too.”
“The least I could do since I spilled ink on the original. Don’t forget to put your name on it. Good night, Master Haverstock.”
Lomax’s sinking heart hit bottom. There was no one by the pillar, and the front door closed with a thud.
Billows of lonesome, pillows of refrain
push back the sky. The winter white largesse
is marked by grooves. The diamond on the pane
is an inverted teardrop forged to bless
with its steel claws. It’s not the slow milk train
I have been waiting for. It’s the express!
The cold creeps in and brings its tight-lipped pain.
I pace. I watch. I fear the puffing noblesse
obliging beast. A charcoal-bleeding stain
lines and defines its breath, its plumed address.
Like tall tins jostled by the slow milk train,
I guard in glass what I cannot express.
I should abjure such mad vigils, abstain
from any, all indecorous address.
Be like the still, unblemished drifts that strain
the poet’s ink. Not give cause for redress.
Or ought I to flee on the slow milk train,
abandon what thick silences express?
The iron needle threads its strand, its strain,
its smudge on canvas Nature will redress.
The chill without, the burn within, in vain,
I strive. In drowning whistle, I confess:
esteem is traveling on the slow milk train;
desire is pounding like a wild express!
Length: 500 (prose + poem)
Characters/Pairing: Lestrade/Lomax the sublibrarian
Rating: G
Notes: the roundelay was inspired by Georgia O'Keefe's watercolour Train at Night in the Desert, 1916.
Summary: Lestrade misinterprets a poem.
“Glad I caught you before you closed up.”
“Inspector! I wasn’t certain you’d even get my message.”
“Cartwright’s a clever chap. Here you go.”
“Thank you for returning it. I apologise. Lending a book, then immediately asking for it back, it’s all terribly embarrassing.”
“Something in here you wanted to retrieve?”
“Yes. Something important, something left by mistake.”
“Poem?”
“Yes.”
“Yours. In your hand, that is...”
“Well…”
“I read it. I liked it. I think I even understood it. May I?” He made a gesture to the space beside Lomax.
“Thank you. Yes. There’s no one about.”
Lestrade moved silently around the side of the counter.
Lomax turned towards him.
Without a word, Lestrade gripped Lomax and threw him bodily into the corner of the wide stone pillar. He covered Lomax’s body with his own and roughly kissed the lips parted in astonishment.
When Lestrade pulled away, he whispered gruffly in Lomax’s ear,
“Not the milk train at all, you see.”
The book was still pressed to Lomax’s chest.
“Mister Lomax?”
Lomax’s eyes and mouth formed round saucers of surprise.
Lestrade released him.
Lomax took up his original position behind the counter while Lestrade tucked himself as tightly as possible against the stone.
“Master Haverstock?”
“You’ve saved me, Mister Lomax! That’s the book? The poem’s still there?”
“Yes. The person who borrowed it kindly returned it this evening.”
“Then I can turn in my assignment in the morning. Whew! I worked so hard on it, and my tutor would never believe I lost it at the library. Might as well say the dog ate it. Thanks for copying it for me, too.”
“The least I could do since I spilled ink on the original. Don’t forget to put your name on it. Good night, Master Haverstock.”
Lomax’s sinking heart hit bottom. There was no one by the pillar, and the front door closed with a thud.
Billows of lonesome, pillows of refrain
push back the sky. The winter white largesse
is marked by grooves. The diamond on the pane
is an inverted teardrop forged to bless
with its steel claws. It’s not the slow milk train
I have been waiting for. It’s the express!
The cold creeps in and brings its tight-lipped pain.
I pace. I watch. I fear the puffing noblesse
obliging beast. A charcoal-bleeding stain
lines and defines its breath, its plumed address.
Like tall tins jostled by the slow milk train,
I guard in glass what I cannot express.
I should abjure such mad vigils, abstain
from any, all indecorous address.
Be like the still, unblemished drifts that strain
the poet’s ink. Not give cause for redress.
Or ought I to flee on the slow milk train,
abandon what thick silences express?
The iron needle threads its strand, its strain,
its smudge on canvas Nature will redress.
The chill without, the burn within, in vain,
I strive. In drowning whistle, I confess:
esteem is traveling on the slow milk train;
desire is pounding like a wild express!
no subject
Date: 2020-01-19 02:31 pm (UTC)Great poem by the way, even if Lestrade did misinterpret it.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-19 02:33 pm (UTC)Thank you very much! I checked out one of those big coffee-table art books with Georgia O'Keefe's watercolours and have been enjoying them.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-19 05:06 pm (UTC)Poor Lestrade - and poor Lomax ^^" The two of them accidentally getting what they both want through a misunderstanding and then ironically immediately losing it again when the misunderstanding is explained. I've a feeling you'll help them to sort this all out though ^___^
I love that double meaning of express used as a refrain in the poem, and all those elegant rhymes. Some favourite lines:
Billows of lonesome, pillows of refrain/ push back the sky.
A charcoal-bleeding stain/ lines and defines its breath, its plumed address.
Be like the still, unblemished drifts that strain/ the poet’s ink.
The iron needle threads its strand, its strain,/ its smudge on canvas Nature will redress.
esteem is traveling on the slow milk train;/ desire is pounding like a wild express!
no subject
Date: 2020-01-19 05:42 pm (UTC)I wanted to give equal weight to the train scene and the impatience of the speaker/lover in the poem. And I wanted to play with a form that hinges on only two rhymes, but picking rhymes that allow for lots of word play even with repetition of the same word.
And I do like the contrast of milk train and express.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-20 06:34 am (UTC)Afraid I'm a bit too literal when it comes to art - I saw the same picture and just saw White Blob on Another White Blob.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-20 01:40 pm (UTC)Sorry about that. I saw it in a book at the library and liked it.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-22 04:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-01-22 07:27 am (UTC)