‘La Mancha’ by Durlabh Singh The Society July 23, 2013 Culture, Poetry 1 Comment Bereft of the poetry of his soul The knight took refuge in the house of death Into darkness he went with his mind crushed Wandering lust gone and with his own trust. The enchanter gone And disenchantment entered And the land of La Mancha Slowly turned to dust & cinders. Talisman of allurements or of feasts Chimeras of windmills or of fabulous beasts Golden liquors and the shining decanters Tales of poets sorcerers and of wizards Adieu to stillness and the romance Tryst and other typographical stance. His merry madness had to go And sanguine sanity had to be constructed Don Quixote had to be demolished And Alfonso had to be resurrected. Alas! there is no poetry left now In the lands of the Al Toboso And no veils of Dulcinea now accrues Across the knight of the mournful rue. Durlabh Singh is a poet living in London, England. Featured Image: “Don Quixote” by Oswald Achenbach. Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ classicalpoets.org with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.” Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) One Response Bruce Dale Wise July 27, 2013 Don Quixote by Oswald Achenbach Upon a trail in shadows, Sancho Panza stares at Don Quixote pointing tow’rds a huge beige rock, and just beyond, the sea. He sits upon his horse and holds a long lance in his hand. Here is no croft. Huge cumulus white clouds, some touched light purple, pass above the rough and rugged open landscape’s loft. Behind him on the trail, Panza’s on his ass. Beside them grow mean, barren, scrub-brush plants, and rare. The two men look ridiculous, or lost, perhaps. It seems as if they’re in the middle of nowhere, and yet, although severe, the scene is lovely, fair. There is an ideality within the air. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.