Monday, February 23, 2009

Featured Poet: James Dye

The DJANGO Award submissions are trickling in, but you -yes, you- still have a chance at the bag of jewels. Now is the time to strike; lots of superfluous Oscars were handed out last night, so why not win a meaningful, prestigious award to show'em how it's done?

That's right. O Sweet Flowery Roses went there. DJANGO submissions close on April 1, 2009. In the mean time, enjoy this poem by the mysterious James Dye, who left no bio, no picture, and but one poem, certainly befitting the spirit of the DJANGO Award:

Something Beautiful

The woman is a beautiful virgin, the loneliest in all of the land. Her hair flows down the mountain reaches the beaches and the sand. Her cheeks are ornaments, her neck a string. For the director; the song "Lilies" she'll sing. Like jewels, eyes veiled like doves in the skies. A full moon shines off the brightness of her eyes. Sandaled feet travel down the path from Village. She fills jugs with precious water pillaged from an earthen tower. Beloved turns, tends to a fig tree, waters it and returns to the heart of a dying valley, waters and returns. Evil Eyes tend to her lovely figure. Jealous woman despise to disfigure, her gemstone thighs, put a blemish in her eyes. And how lovely, O love, that men will kill to steal for a look behind the silken veil at her will. Why is she any better? The fig tree blossoms give off her fragrance. The flowers wither as she's picked quickly, swallowed, overcome with wine. The land is invaded by Pagans and ring-nosed swine. She is wise but they are harsh, evil. Silver and gold acquires her sensual delight, a slave in harem, a concubine, in plight. Beloved turns and tosses day at night. They make pinnacles out of her gems, gateways out of her beryl and her stones become a wall, the most beautiful property in the land of them all. "Arise and come away with me!" says Knight. She gives herself into his hands, stripped. Becomes the King's nurse and serves him. Follows the path of flocks, and herds men. For the director; she sings the tune of, "Lilies" a love song. A heart is stirred. She is given Zion, the most beautiful of words. A fair garland; crowned, as awe inspiring as armies. Men from all around come to see her, a diadem of remnants, and they feast on the finest flour, silken honey, every hour adorned in gold, clothed in the embroidery of royalty. “Wake up! Wake up! Zion is doomed to destruction. The dress, the jewels, the gold, eye shadow, nothing,” someone told her. The lover spurns her, wants to kill her. The tree is set on fire. It blazes with a mighty roar. The branches are good for nothing. The land is ruined. Trampled into desolate wastes, swarmed by stinging flies, her chambers are destroyed, pavilions tore down, her eyes. Her tears say, "I am perfectly beautiful." Her roots dig deeply down to plentiful waters. Her branches are a forest of shade. Top reaches the clouds. The trees envy; hear but don't listen