Poem Number 22987

something brighter

They're all rather small,
and usually dark-eyed, dark-hair,
undertones of shadows in their skin.

Strangers,
coming, going,
blowing through my life
like leaves that fall from trees
late in winter.

I fall for them,
invite them
with my looks,
my smell,
even the sound of me.

If they spring this trap
of courtship,
I give them a taste, a touch-
just a slip
of tongue,

a word to wet their eyes,
their ribbons undone,
their thighs shivering
with dew.

My language is simple,
accidental,
unintentional.

I'm embarrassed how easily
love is mentioned.

How shy the hunter is
when the prey
looks innocent,
and finds her way
into his prayers.

There haven't been many.

Maybe more than a few.

Each unique.

And everyone is something brighter
than the sun

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-oephim

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well done!!
esp like shadow undertones, middle strophes
last line perhaps cliche but a minor subtraction from a large sum
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I hate the last line, but I can't figure out what to substitute in its place. It has to have the same rhythm and pace, but I don't know what to do. I'm stuck. Because it's more than rhythm, it's also the sound. Do you know what the sound of the words is called?
Let me try something...
okay, I could redact everything starting with 'There haven't been many...'

and then just finish with this which would sorta fit the theme,

'How long the night is, constantly lit by candles,
in mourning for the sun,
waiting for morning.'
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I don't think that there is one word but rather a combination of several sound devices: alliteration, assonance,consonance,euphony,onomatopoeia and so forth.
As to your rework I'm afraid our writing is so different in that you layer language ( and very well) while I am a minamalist by nature and can be of little help. I might say ie. " there haven't been many suns" and in doing that assume the reader fills in the unique brightness.
As a suggestion I would look to the earlier strophe re. prayer if you plan to use the sun as a simile and consider the pracise of sun worshipers
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This is just my opionion. I thought this was a wonderful poem but you lost me when I got to "There haven't been many." Who cares how many? If it matters, why not leave it up to the imagination of the reader. I would end the poem after the part "how shy the hunter.....into his prayers." Perhaps the idea of "brightness could be put in in the beginning somewhere with the leaves falling from the trees. If they are like leaves of winter, are they also all brighter than the sun? Just a question. What a talent you have. Beautiful images. I would love to be your lover but not your wife.
sg
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you're right. and since i've already posted one rewrite, here's the one for this one too.

They're all rather small,
although they loom large
within my wide eyes.

They seem to be upon my every horizon,
no matter which way I twist,
no matter how I resist,
i cannot get away,
they insist I take my turn,
wait patient for me to learn
to play their antique games.

They hide within their dark eyes
and dark hair,
with those undertones of shadows in their skin.

they are
Strangers.

coming, going, blowing
through

leaves that fall from trees,
late in winter

I fall for them,
invite them
with my looks,
my smell,
even the sound of me.

If they spring this trap
of courtship,
I give them a taste, a touch
with just a slip of tongue-

maybe one word to wet their eyes

with any luck,
their ribbons come undone,
their thighs shiver
with dew,
and they'll bloom
come summer.

I try not to try too hard.
I tie these presents up
in an elaborate way
and there's a rush to deliver,
with hardly a pause to backwards turn
and witness.

My language is simple,
accidental,
unintentional.

Rambling descriptions of our past
and our future
will only reveal
how eternal she is,
and I don't wish to scare her
from here and now.

I'm embarrassed how easily
love is mentioned,
while my hands shake,
and my sight grows dim,

it becomes blurred
as she frolics
within the clearing
amongst the copse of tree,
over the corpse of
everything that was.

I live with a permanent absence,
often
leaving empty-handed.

Yet still somehow,
I feel a presence,
a tattoo of thoughts
that command attention
where the ignorance of logic
would serve me better.

How shy this hunter becomes
when the prey
looks innocent,
and finds her way into his prayers.

In the darkness, you cannot be seen
but you also cannot hide.

She will find you, even in sleep,
she will appear
within your dream,
bind you with spells
and tales of what tomorrow
may never bring.

The laughter of it stings in echo,
rings from the mirror's reverberation,
reveals phantom pain
from vestigial limbs
deep within.

How long the night is,
constantly lit by candles,
in mourning for the sun,
waiting for nothing more
than morning.