holmes_minor | Poetry: Of Love and Miasma: Teen (Reply)

Title: Of Love & Miasma (Poetry by I. Quill & S. Holmes)
Rating: Teen (for Holmes's poem)
Length: 330
Notes: Inky's is an English sonnet. Holmes's is a variation on.
Summary: Holmes asks Inky for a bit of inspiration
Author's Note: for the fffc September challenge quote by Maya Angelo that began 'Love is a virus.'

On me, Mister Quill, autumn has an effect similar to that of spring on the younger man. The air cools, the leaves change color, and my usually serious thoughts turn to fancy.

Fancy? You mean poetry.

Yes, I mean poetry. Watson writes a bit of verse now and then. Why not me? But where to start? The realm is dauntingly vast.

Indeed. Perhaps I could pen something to inspire you.

Capital idea!

All right. Give me a word.

Miasma.

Miasma?

Yes, it's origins are Greek--.

Yes, I'm familiar. Very well. The tone might be a bit dark.

Like the lengthening night, Mister Quill, like the lengthening shadows.

---

Miasma in the Time of Love
By I. Quill

Night air. Its tainted tendrils uncurl and creep
along the larkless streets in search of fettle prime,
then reap in fleshy sleeves the leaves which’ll steep
in twisty misty coils of foul sublime.

Night fog. Opaque drape wrapped ‘round shoulders, broad
and narrow. Shroud of sick-soaked rope descends.
It presses clays to clods of irksome god,
crafts bricks of sticks to meet its graven ends.

Night scent. It clings to all with claw-foot wings.
It whets its appetite on day’s mistakes,
forgotten, rotten, raw, besotten things,
its fingertips a-linger-skip in wakes.

Miasma. Vile, accursed atmosphere
compelling life to sniff and sigh in fear.

Love in the Time of Miasma

By S. Holmes

Night air. That lover’s cry might crack pane, shame
and let the noisome poison in, to mix
and mingle, then return from whence it came,
a passion’s brew a-raft up River Styx.

Night fog. A spectre curtains actors, stage.
That hand may find hand without incensed sneer.
That honeyed words might fill ears, hollows, page
and light the way through shadow insincere.

Night scent. Extinguished wicks and little deaths
that leave a catacomb of bone bouquet.
A mystery, an ecstasy, a breath
of perfumed reason’s treason, flight, decay.

So, hoist the yellow flag! And don the beaky masks!
if air, like us, ‘tis foul, why not drain its fetid casks?