I awake in a bath of glimmering sunlight, The warmth seeping into my complexion flushing incarnadine rose. Cyprus invades my senses, smoky and sweet lingers as I inhale the dewey delights, Of this aubade- encompassing the tranquil meadow I find myself within.
Leaves rustle, my olive eyes flicker rightward, and I gaze straight into anothers, A fawn dances on the brim of the eclipsed woods, and my sunlit serenity. I feel a sharp cool breeze whish past my locks, splintering my stare with the youthful creature, In time to witness the silver arrow soar past, and I glance again to where the dim meets the day.
I see Her then, gracing the forest floor with the juvenile doe, White robes flowing like gentle crests of the Aegean sea, entrancing every living thing around. The elysian Lady of the Wild Things nimbly takes another arrow from her silver quiver, shoots, And vanishes within the shadows of the forest, leaving behind a presence of orphic divinity.
I was a good friend, and a bad one. I was a day child, and a night one. It rained and the sun shone, I wasted time on my phone; I was friendly, and I was alone. I was in love, and I was afraid. I shouted hello, I knelt down and prayed. I cried for the dead, I said what I said; I thought about leaving, but I stayed instead.
The darkness of oxblood naugahyde booths barely steeped in feeble candle light Cocktails upon cocktails and cigarettes until we realize, my companion and I, That we have been completely blocked in No chance of escape Not even to *** So we’re basically sliding out to nowhere.
In time the tabletop becomes covered with the rings of dripping condensation from Guinness cans. Wet ring upon ring sparkle and At times aluminum is slammed down upon the table, And not at all casually. You see, we were being marked as theirs A mighty squadron of faux suede heads blocking access so that no **** Yank may approach
(and this is Hollywood) They might as well have hung a Union Jack)
These two birds We were territories to be given To Her Majesty. I’m Hope and She’s Glory. Or is it.....
They keep announcing to us that “Diana is dead.” And we keeping replying “yes, we know, the tv is on,” pointing behind us.
Earlier that night we sat on the floor At the coffee table Snorting narrow lines of ******* with CNN on in the background They announce twice as we lean back and wipe our nostrils that Diana, Princess of Wales has been in a motor crash and has broken her wrist.
Well that *****. A broken wrist in Paris. We returned our focus back to the coffee table and the announcer comes back this time with a completely different tone Sombre Really sombre He states Diana, Princess of Wales Is Dead.
Dead? We announced to each other with jinx simultaneity and incredulity. It was just her wrist?
Once at the bar we made cracks About off-shore bank accounts receiving wire transfers from the Queen.
That previous summer in the first food aisle of Rock and Roll Ralph’s I turned towards the sunlight and saw her image on an American tabloid Displayed in the point of sale racks At checkout There were two rather fuzzy photos Shining golden hair on a turned feminine head A blue maillot A diving board off a yacht Arms wrapped in the Sea And I thought softly to myself “Oh no.” But I can’t even tell you why.
I feel the old gods in me breathe. Subtle hands, contracting intercostals, feminine fingers that scream and wail when I let men with ill intent come near me - feminine fingers that announce themselves as Athena, Diana. Do you have a legacy? I feel Nefertiti, Osiris, Iris, clench their fists in my gut when I cry in my sleep and wake up angry - Hecate spits and twitches her paws when my undulating heart lacks the oil that flourished during her reign. Wings over me, the contorted body of Nike. Protective but irate. A shout, and a burst blood vessel in the corner of my eye - by the aging moon this tumult of Dido's wild ichor inside me grows... Have you ever used your voice? Athena's words in my head telling me to scream - Roar of the old gods telling me to run - Their tongues in the sand and in the grass blades. Child of flesh and hard times. An unknown voice from the mouth of my mother commands me - 'take firm grasp of the magic within you' Perhaps I am too afraid to reply.
Diana of the woods and Wild animals, as swift as winds That rustle leaves, her muscles are as Mighty as the brown bear, her legs are as Steady and strong as the wolf dog that yips At her swiveling hips, her motion as graceful As the rushing rivers, yet as fierce as a tornado’s Spiral, pouncing, bounding, she cuts the air as sharp As the arrow that springs from her bow, eyes transfixed On her target—
Diana, goddess of the woods and Wild animals, captured in black bronze And displayed atop marble like a prize won.
I wrote this while observing a sculpture. I tried to capture the power of her figure and contrast the dynamism of her legend with the stoicism of the art form. I hope you enjoy. Please leave comments. -DD