This version is purely an adaptation of a previous version of - She liken to Burns “Red, Red Rose”

Of course with metric poetry one can go in many different directions once that the basic metric scale is laid.

The original and much maligned version of my first ever poem, is available for those interested on the following link.

http://freewrights.freeforums.org/she-once-so-likened-to-burns-red-red-rose-much-amended-t2627.html

On this occasion I have decided to go back to my own adaption of an older form of poetry the “Habbie Simpson” one that predates Robert Burns, though there is no doubt that he was later to become its styles finest exponent.

I have also incorporated what sonneteers love to term the “volta” which simply means a change in direction either of its meaning or sentiment usually, in answer to a question or statement.

As I never received any form of help from Eratosphere, as my first posting there was, unceremoniously booted, off virtually immediately it appeared.

No doubt, in no small way because, of its basic iambic construction.

Apparently, such is frowned upon by the good denizens of the enlightened sphere whose own elaborate metric contortions make for pretty indigestible reading at times.

It is a good job Shakespeare never posted there; I bet he could have written some pretty scathing comments before being booted off by the indignant hierarchy.

This piece is purely experimental, I have no idea if it works or not.

However as the old adage says,

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” Alternatively, if that fails, go to the pub and forget it all.

Tokaji, a sonsie wine; a  true
presager placed:
as given kings;or subjects few
in hasty waste.
If I should drink your aged embrace.
What then my worldly rheobase
of wiser taste.

Would it manipulate a mind
in ways few seen.
That I of purpose have, to find
in cold examen:
Debris of words I not foresee
In all I could, so wish aim be;
A suitor’s scene.

As rare vitae’s so- suffused rose
like blood red wine.
True fragrance ne’er felt needs transpose
ascendant bine.
A promise set on greenest brier
its margent thought of self-attire:
to there entwine.

True love be like rosaceous rose
a pained joy.
Such tender care one’s self, it shows:
in softness coy
A beauteous term, its cause admire
What more may man, in deeds desire:
Or deem deploy.

My love vies true my vermeil rose
Its worth to show:
when essence, I aspire in prose.
And yet to know
no true r troth may man compare
or beauty’s world; a self so share:
loves inner glow.

What, sad lustred hope does man propound?
in vines noble rot
Those whispered ways so seldom found
or meaning caught.
When, life’s libretto fails intent.
Portmanteau’s seemly thoughts ill spent:
and all is naught.

When a’ his dreams they gan awry
wi’ volta’s turn.
An aw’ his purposed being sigh.
at such a spurn
Wid he by yon Jock Tamson seek
tae see apply MhicTamhais speak:
a point tae earn

For if, my words could risk an ear
what moments could their making fear.
In life’s complexity of laudation
if such, was lection’s lesser station.

So now, the leaching pen moves on.

For what are words but thoughts ill placed
despite creation, few are graced.
And like the rapid firing pun
are lost before brain sense begun.

Or fade from mirage’s spatial sway.

Your radiance gone, sweet stemma rose
complacence be it clearest foes.
A quelled quintessence o’ my fire
saw path, o’ other man’s desire.

A season’s endless change of face.

How bare thy form renitent rose
such price to pay, love does impose.
What fearful wounds thy thorns impart
where grace, grieves too, a broken heart.

To leave all in sad lornness day.

As now love’s morphemes a crushed lies
like stars across life’s darken skies.
To dance as fireflies in the mind
and give back hope too they once blind.

For like the grapes of wrath implied
Love ne’er itself true purpose died.

Mor.