we are also living the stories we planted -
knowingly or unknowingly - in ourselves
Ben Okri
She enters the house with her skirts
frayed and field-stained. Her left hand
bitten by a dog. Oblivious to pain, she grabs
a washbowl, hot iron from the hearth, rags
that were once her brother's linen shirt.
Soon the wound is cauterized and dressed. In
the glass, she glances at her face. Tangling hair
resembles the shade of dried blood -- or is
the broom grass
ruffling the broad lands in thick disarray.
The thought
lingers along with the day's trauma
but none of its makes news in her diary. Her
fingers
pull
aside a pale ribbon
as if yielding to the mundane -- and she writes;
Branwell
is coming home on a train from London
There
will be storm clouds over the moors and cold
gusts
when he returns. We must ready the house
with
plenty of light and food. Lay out fresh linens
and
sheets of music on the piano. I think
I
will play him a concerto by Liszt.
Then she shuts the leather shutters of her
journal
and ends a daily routine. Rubbing her injured
hand
she
remembers where she disembarked
(days before)
and leans again into the twilight
of that
half-imagined scene. A girl clings
to
the granite ledge of a window
watching
the young people inside.
Her
legs are scratched by the bramble;
and
her ankle bone shines
like
a white moon drawing
the
howl of wind and pit bull
straining
to seize
the
beautiful intruder.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Having seen the wonderful and uniquely crafted
book sculptures on "The Myth and
Moor" blog site sponsored by
author/artist, Terri Windling, I was
left awestruck by the scope and diversity of the art. The one image that haunted me long after the initial
viewing, was a piece called "I shall
not; finding out the secret" by Justin Rowe.
The pages cut and left billowing as
waves along with the winsome girl
standing near the edge , brought to mind Emily
Bronte. Standing there with her bustle skirt wrinkled and a sprig of broom
in her hand, I thought of the Victorian author coming in from the gust-swept
moors. A poem was beginning to form as I also recalled a recent article in The
Paris Review. The magazine's feature focused on the enigma of Bronte's
reclusive nature paralleled with the wild and expressive prose she exhibited in
her masterpiece, Wuthering Heights. It contended that the diarist
writings of this woman along with her letters were mundane and unassuming. The reader as well as the author
of the essay would be inclined to ask, Then how could such a reticent person write with that depth of passionate
risk and abandon?
My poem attempts to answer this question with its openings scene where Emily enters with her hand bitten by a wild dog. Without hesitation, she tends to the wound and then proceeds to write in her journal. The contrast between what she writes, what she has experienced and what she later imagines as a continuing scene in her novel, is distinct and diverse. It underscores the epigram by Ben Okri. In the appearance of our nature and everyday life, we function one way-- but underneath, imagination stirs and we slip into those stories that shape our inner desires and other identity. Maybe the shadow of our character that keeps its distance but still casts its influence through art.
I should also mention the poem's reference to
the dog bite and dressing of the wound is based on an incident from her real
life.
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Credits and Links:
Justin
Rowe's Gallery: http://www.daysfalllikeleaves.com/book-sculptures/
Article in Paris
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