Sunday, November 27, 2011

The Love Song of E. Elizabeth Prufrock

 
The Love Song of E. Elizabeth Prufrock

by Erin Elizabeth Muir

Amidst my avocations, distraction and demons,
and music, strains from another room.
Today the metamorphose is incomplete, and I have awakened as J. Alfred.
I am falling, again and again I am falling, you see,
and willfully, and against my will, an ancient pain,
sweetly, sensually, unrootable:
vines from a mobius strip wrapping round my body,
chains made of a flesh eating green, like a venus fly trap,
a nature, a desire. I want it. I fear it. It is me. It is he. It is all of us at once.

and words and words and words
and the poet sings
in dreams the message is perfect
but waking, she becomes ineffectual in her babel tower.
beautiful, and desirous, and possibly quite mad.

If ever I had known how to never
allow bitterness in my heart,
then I am child-like now, and so imagine my
shock at my own self-dismay,
as from all my shadows emerge, dusty, now dusting off the drapery,
the drudgery, engaging, on fire, a Demon.
like the brightest star that fell from the heavens,
plunging e’er deeper into the murky sludge, the far corners of paradise,
rising up now, the mists of eternity clearing way for that
truth greater than all facts and figures, the inhuman form
which whispering, places a single icicle of fear in my heart.

Oh, love! To be Juliet. To have died within moments of the first sweet lock,
to never know the other side of purity.
But I am not asleep, and nor am I awake.
I am breathless, I am all the breathing of the sky,
a billion stars shining in the heavens,
a single pebble on the sand.

No, I am no J. Alfred. Nor was meant to be.
And in the room, the girls giggle, talking of

nothing.

I am not walking on the beach, trousers rolled. I am not standing on the balcony, I am not sculpting David, I am not whimpering and I am not banging, I am singing-

I am singing!
 (Each to each.) Which means-
the mermaid-
is me.

ah, drawing breath again, do I dare to be a human?
Emerging from this sea of crystal thoughts, wearing a crown of anemone and kelp?
Do you see? These waves are you dreams,
and these pink shells are recompense for your hopes that washed away
where once you wrote them along the beach,
and these glistening pearls within are made rarer, truer, more valuable in your eyes.

If you say so, I will remove my fishy scales,
lay down my cerulean triton, and emerge
                                                           

a woman.

And if I say so, too, then the human voices waking us shall be our own.



(and it will have been worth it, and we will never know what we meant.)

Sunday, November 20, 2011

A Sonnet A Day Keeps The Hoardes Away

Reversal



Quite deep, surprised! E’en- mystified- and thrilled.
For who foretold the heart would dance, would build?
And shift forever the way one knows how to know
True love. That piece which cannot, will not be killed.

This mark’ed pain, so deep you’ve pierced your arrow.
Particular poison, an antidote to sorrow.
I crave... Withdrawing now the blade, to thee
I give my heart, a thousand times the morrow.

Yet wonder, did you mean to aim at me?
My seeking eyes so damn all fear to see-
Unfolding fortune’s plan, whither I willed
It so? No! I will not hide my dreams-

No self-taught lies of day can succeed to thwart
What you, in sweet of night, placed in my heart.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

I, Forgiver

 
I, Forgiver




A wisp of brunette hair, a shade of song,
Pacific in her slides, her curves, he saw
And looked away, he dare not speak, nor say,
If he, his mouth, opened wide? O! his heart-

He jack; then king! His queen, would leap away:
And that, he could not fear to let astray,
Asserts, in modern times, him-self he owns:
A Man- a boy- no King. No Jack. Ashamed.

A Solitude. A Study of Alone.
His angel, in his mind, at dawn, has flown.
If eyes, and light, and opening would come,
Her peace, so warm, would melt his mask of stone.

He cries: "Where dwells this sea-wreathed soul-mate who saves?!"
To keep from crying, she laughs, forgive her, dear knave.




Erin Elizabeth Muir

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

how to be magic

 
how to be magic

“that’s right,” she said, I asked, “how to be magic?
no, not magical, but magic itself?”

who brings this unsigned petition to the sun?
who carries the water, dying of thirst, to the moon?

‘tis you who read this, ‘tis you who seek the sky
yet knowing truth an unascertainable thing,

pursue with faith (like a dog), the love of your life
and finding it not, again the heavens you lap.

“so. lesson one. forget everything you know.
lesson two, learn to follow your heart.

section three begins with emptiness.
that’s all,” she said. “what do you mean?” I asked.

“The paper has been torn away after that,”
she said, laughing.
                        She laughed, damn star! at loss!

It was the end of my belief in rules.
If she could not tell me how to do it,

Then damn all four leaf clovers, damn them all.
And give me instead, the grass in which they grow.