Oh, My Dear Octavia

by Toe-walker

Rating: everyone
Tags: Octavia, Random, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad
Length: 1151

A poem about the passage of time and new beginnings.

On a chill, bright autumn day, Octavia stands on a windswept cliff-top, contemplating the sea below. Inspired, she then takes her life in a new direction.

Published 2021-08-28 00:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2021-08-28 00:00:01 UTC

The festival

Autumn Day, come along,
Drew an imposing throng,
Big as they come.
Left and right stands the mass,
Centred, the upper class.
Words make a hum.

Early acts entertained
Fairly. The crowd remained
Hungry for more.
Now, at long last, your turn
Comes, and their gazes burn
Down to your core.

Taking a seat, you bring,
Timidly, bow to string,
Then you begin.
Try to be unaware
That a collective stare
Claws at your skin.

Quickly, your piece grows loud
And you forget the crowd,
Stern as a drill.
You are too focussed now
Even to notice how
Practice meets thrill.

Something unique holds sway
Which, with each note you play,
Goes and arrives.
There, in its midst, stand you,
Blissfully living through
Dozens of lives.

Clear, your full essence rings
With, for all other things,
Nary a care.
Into one demiurge
Nature and labour merge
Flesh, wood and air.

Forth bursts a final bout.
Softly, it peters out.
Silence ensues.
Stiffly, you look around.
Did you, on whims unsound,
Gamble and lose?

Then all those viewers who
Looked to be prying you,
Searching for flaws,
Probing and sundering,
Burst into thundering
Clouds of applause.

Over the hilltops

Up the hills winds the way
Flanked by tall stalks that sway,
Stinging to make you stay
And, at the top, there play
Light golden rays.
Gallop, Octavia, smoothly as lace.

Breath moves reluctantly,
Dryly and lifelessly,
Coldly and whistlingly,
Yet to stop now would be
Too great a risk.
Gallop, Octavia, weightless and brisk.

Up and away you fly,
Feeling like pegasi
Surely must feel to ply
Miles of cloudless sky,
Awed by its length.
Gallop, Octavia, drawn by your strength.

Then, as you slow your pace,
Clearing the top with grace,
There lies that lustrous place,
Wiping your furrowed face
Clean of its frown.
Hurry, Octavia, home to your town.

Into town

Here you are, home at last.
Stories from seasons past
Hang in the eaves.
Listening, carry on,
Noisily tread upon
Colourful leaves.

Neighbourly nods bequeath
Happiness underneath
Hanging festoons.
Chilly winds wax and wane,
Catching your chestnut mane,
Whistling their tunes.

Everywhere, chatter stirs,
But a grand matter spurs
You to press on.
Talk of what lies ahead
Flies through your charging head.
Then you are gone.

There it is, finally.
Sharply sprint, cravingly,
To your abode,
Tidy and picturesque.
Skip to your writing-desk.
Free what you stowed.

Practice

Sleep and then fetch your bow,
Practice, beginning slow.
Soon you gain speed.
Musical through and through,
Though your limbs grumble, you
Pay them no heed.

Melodies resonate,
Fragments reverberate,
Graceful and loud,
For, by the music kissed,
You are a celloist,
Skilful and proud.

Later by just two days,
Autumn Day will take place.
All will be there.
And on this holiday,
You have been booked to play
Out in the square.

Now you intend to play
That which you wrote to-day,
Making it shine.
As the big date draws close,
Training without repose
Files it fine.

Royals will be there, and,
Gathered from all the land,
Faces with clout.
Swiftly, the day is here.
Ought you to hope or fear?
Go and find out.

Success

More comes to you, who had.
You receive, stunned and glad,
All that you sought.
Royals are also awed.
All of the guests applaud
What you have wrought.

You begin growing rich,
Being a wellspring which
Gives and regales,
Guarding what you have gained,
Seeing your rise sustained
Through your travails.

You obtain wealth and weal
And, at long last, you feel
Fame and renown,
Glamour and dizziness,
Sennights of busyness
Spent out of town.

Many things come your way,
Many a popinjay,
Experts and freaks.
Journalists read your lips,
Adjunct professorships
Fill up your weeks.

Though not a thing comes free,
Smiling, you knowingly
Do not repent.
When after day comes night,
You will feel more than right,
Sleeping content.

Coda

Though you could glean no clues,
Suddenly comes the news,
Shaking your world.
Memories ring in you.
Feel a great spring in you
Gently uncurled.

Dazedly stand and walk,
Catching excited talk.
Steady your knees.
"...Put up a hardy fight...".
"...Half made it out all right...".
"...Back in one piece...".

Wind whistles breezily,
Dances and easily
Sings in the trees.
Feel your eyes sweetly burn,
See your best friend return
From overseas.

Writing

Yesterday's dull ideas
And ones from bygone years
Flung to the side,
Spend you the next few days
Scribbling. Your face displays
Effort and pride.

After the first night falls,
Sleep where your body sprawls,
Mouth in a grin.
First, through sheer force of will,
Shut the door open still
Since you stormed in.

Just as the morrow dawns,
Seeking to rush your yawns,
Start you again.
Then, fourteen hours away,
Hours that pass like play,
Lay down your pen.

Next, the third day begins.
All but your writing thins
Into a haze.
Idle are both your ears.
All that your mind still hears
Plays in your gaze.

When the third night descends,
Waking days near their ends,
Still you press on.
"Something superb is nigh",
Sense you, your spirits high,
Worries long gone.

Now that you wrote all night,
Toiling by candlelight,
Out comes the sun.
After a beat or two,
Slowly, it dawns on you
It is all done.

Perfect notes, perfect modes,
Show what the piece encodes,
Nimbly conveyed.
Sonorous harmonies
Make it a masterpiece
Ripe to be played.

The lives of waves

Frothing seas
Churn below.
Memories
Fade, so slow.
Oh, my dear Octavia,
Over and done.

Passing waves
Leave a splash,
Rear their manes,
Proudly crash.
Oh, my dear Octavia,
Over and done.

Seasons change,
Currents shift;
Life is a
Ceaseless drift.
Oh, my dear Octavia,
Over and done.

Turn your two
Baleful eyes,
Raise them to
Sunlit skies -
Much, my dear Octavia,
Yet to be done.

Author's Note

This was inspired by "O du lieber Augustin" ("O you dear Augustin"). It can be sung to the same tune.

The grove of solace

Turn around, swiftly go,
Leaving the waves below
Where the dark gusts still blow
In the old cove.
Look, my dear Octavia, there is the grove.

Bumblebees, unaware,
Full and yet free of care,
Buzz through the meadow, where
Swallow-swarms rove.
Stride, my dear Octavia, into the grove.

Relish forgetfulness,
Shedding regretfulness,
Hearing the breeze caress
Boughs up above.
Pause, my dear Octavia, savour this grove.

Spots of shade form a fray,
Dance in a neat array,
Stage an unfolding play
Providence wove.
Study, Octavia, life in this grove.

Birdsongs ring to and fro,
Playing, in afterglow,
All that to write you so
Skilfully strove.
Dance, my dear Octavia, dance through this grove.

Clear as in youth, you see
You can relentlessly
Recombine endlessly
Themes from your trove.
Rush, my dear Octavia, forth from this grove.