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Becoming Emily

All comments are welcome.

It is said that a stone may only go
As far as you can throw it and
That life may be as large as you come
To know it. And so it is
For me.
From the vast and hollow spaces of
My empty home, I have learned
To live life from the inside, looking out.
I’ve explored the inner verticals, the
Imploding horizontals, wandered through
Untraveled corridors and the once
Forbidden passages, roamed freely over
Full, uncharted landscapes and the
Jagged, rich, interior of my captive
Human roadmap.
And in hushed, consoling beauty
Of morning’s quiet hum, I lift my
Face to no one but the memory of a
Thousand rising suns. A sweet and
Seasoned symphony of crickets guides
My crooked feet, while fleeing families
Of trees extend their nimble arms
Like midnight phantoms. The quixotic
Chorus of their colored leaves sets me
Drifting, their random entries and long
Departures are never mentioned, hardly spoken.
But in the black and seamless brilliance
Of evenings heated sky, I look up
And stars become spaceships and
Spaceships turn to moons, and my
Dreams are like voyagers or
Twilight journeymen, collecting
Pieces of the day and storing them
Like missing jewels.
And I yearn for other times when
Choices were so few that minds dressed
Up like stoics, when Walden Ponds
And self-reliance were not simply
Useless parts of metaphorical debates.
I’d keep myself content in the company
Of Emerson, seek solace in the pines
With, the help of my Thoreau. It is
Here where I see Emily, in the sternness
Of New England, spinning out her years
In golden threads of verse.
Yet how can I presume my reluctant
Transformation to a poet I don’t
Know and cannot come soon to fathom,
For the darkness howling in my eyes
Has left her work in shadows. I
Only can imagine that words became the
Canvas with which our unprotected souls
Sought temporary cover. For like unrequited Emily,
Solitude’s my constant mistress, and though
I try to leave, it seduces me in time.
So, when I think of her, trapped inside
Her moments, placing pain and
Sorrow within her rueful scripture,
I pray for my transcendence from the
Lonely vault of silence, as I
Design a living history within my
Pinup world.
Silhouettes of friends dance across
Cold windows, a  mother’s silky hand
Smooths my restless sheets. Sofas
Rise and fall to the vanished breath
Of fathers, dressers empty and
Unfold old fragile faded loves.
Each object heals and dazzles
With the vigilance of memory,
Until the satin hush that was drowning
Me in whispers has renovated time
In heroic fabrications, decorated meaning
With rekindled, sacred wisdom,
Freeing Emily’s spirit from
Its unholy chain of loss.

13 Apr 07

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niiiiiiiiice!!!!!! this is gr8 work.
commendable choice of words. loved stanza 8.
If you got to fill u a form or a questionairre to describe yourself... i think this poem would serve as the ultimate apt choice. do really consider it. :-)
If you want someone to know you deep and better than anyone else.. show him/her this poem... they might fall in love with you.

i M not sure but u could do away with the autobiographical tone in your piece.. remove all the "I"s and see if you like it all the more.
 — trochee

Dear Bethl

This is a truly brilliant and sustained piece of writing that held me captive from first to last. Some people on here need to wake up and find all that the noble fruitful yet terribly lonely persuit of the muse that so often remains tantalisingly out of reach. I don't know the Emily you refer to but it brought to my mind one of my favourite female poets, Emily Bronte and so much of what you convey here i could fit into what i know of her life and work. Thank you for posting this poem.

 — larrylark