Lotus petals woven into her hair and

wrists bound with reeds,

she descends into the murky

warmth of the river bed,

where the minnows and tadpoles

nestle against her

***** affectionately–

“Sister,

at last you

have returned

to us.”

I. The Funeral



Take the rosemary

they have pressed between my toes

and use it to garnish

your next glass of wine.

As you drink

make a toast,

not to merriment,

but to lamentation–

to the remembrance

of thy maiden’s death.



Cheers! to the unity

of our most unwavering

disgrace.



Cheers to what

has been broken.



In a fit of maddening remorse–

for this time the madness shall be tangible–

tear away the silk

lining of this

****** funeral bed

like you did tear

away the curtain and what

hid behind it.



Tear it away!



Tear it away like you did

tear the rat,

like you did tear and discard

the honour that did lie

between thy maiden’s legs,

like the river’s rapids

did tear away thy maiden’s life.



And once you have

sheathed your sword–

I entreat you–

kneel and bow your head

in surrender to the lilies

that lie before my grave;

you will caress their stems

and kiss their petals

in the hopes that

your love–the love

you did deny me–

will breathe life back

into these water-logged lungs.



But just as it is certain

that the flowers,

in their cyclical phases

of nature,

must bloom,

it is also certain that the dead

must remain dead.



For there is nothing so definite

as the blooming

just as there is nothing so definite

as the dying.



–Post Madness



II. The Drowning



My gown billows around

me like the slick

ripple of a mermaid’s fin.



I can hear the Lady Siren’s Song

and all of its guarantees:

liberation of this life’s

betrayals and heartbreaks,

liberation procured

by the certainty of death.



I **** the nectar of her voice,

drinking in every crescendo–

every last staccato–

of what the water has

promised me.

I **** the nectar of her voice

as I had so foolishly

suckt at the honey of his

music vows,

the same way

his own babe would

have suckt the milk

from the swell of my breast–

my babe to be

that shall never be

drowned by my sodden womb,

my babe whose mother–

certain in what proved to be

the uncertainty

of her lord’s love–

conceived him

in a bed of sin,

a bed of dishonour.



So now, my sweet child,

I do not object

to the deluge that

threatens to drag us

beneath the current,

for perhaps

this is the only way

to put the dishonour

to rest.



So float with me,

my sweet nymph,

and let us both dissolve

into spirits of the river.



–The Pinnacle of Madness



III. The Heartbreak



I, A maid at your window,

mouth glittering in anticipation

for your sweet, valentined kiss.



To the celestial and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia…



And so up you rose

to unlatch the chamber door–

to meet the nestle of

soft, petaled lips.



Doubt thou the stars are fire,



Doublet unbraced,

you undressed

and to this, My Lord, I

so willingly followed.



Doubt that the sun doth move,



Corset loosened and

gown discarded

with you, I did lie.



Doubt truth be a liar,



So certain I was of your love,

that sin no longer daunted me.



But never doubt I love.



And certainly I was proven wrong,

for in the escapade of our passion

we did touch so dishonourably.



–Pre-Madness (The Inciting Incident)

with Apollo forgotten and filtered through
dangling leaves of willows and waterlogged flowers
bunches of peonies and rosemary
some red in there too (all the better for the boy's deed)
she floats on water
and cannot remember how to feel the sun
or how to be tender
with this much blood in her mouth

Of every death
Preceding this moment in time
As I stand before a painting
Of a young woman hanging drowned
In a scene inlayed
With thoughtless flowers,
Which death is it,
Exactly,
That renders Millais' Ophelia
With its beauty?

The work alone has form:
Flora, depth, the colour of minute lights
And the image has concept:
A woman, dead in water.
Ophelia lives in an image and a play:
One moment, one story
Resting on the temporal slopes
Of this painted pinnacle of signs.
Why did Shakespeare write
About a woman pushed to suicide
By the death of her father,
At the hands of a heroic lover feigning Spiritual vacancy
At the request of his own undead parent?
Does every woman share this fate,
Or is it fantasy -
Attaining psychic substance
Through a kind of impossible insanity?
In other words:
Is Ophelia's death,
So chosen by Millais
And Shakespeare in turn
(Whose names are poetry)
A mimetic echo of a million mortal moments?
Or is it the prophecy of a time yet to come
For which death has been moulded
In a looping narrative cast,
Made into a word describing
Some sacred foreseen feature -
Which is it:
Does meaning sink into the past
Or fly into the future?

Oh, fair Prince how your beauty lies
That the mere brush of a butterfly turns your head
The most fleeting of caresses turns your course,
And your constant weakness of will
Remains enforce.

Such thinking, thinking
Behind your fair brow
The flux of desire and illogic;

Setting aside your crown.
What sweet tortures you merit,
And stress upon my being
Misadventure and folly,
Deception unseemly.

But, I am beast in woman form
Not one to bow lightly
For in this tender heart resides a seed pearl
Of the rarest sort.
A gift, a treasure;
My priceless measure.

One can never guard oneself too carefully.
I will cleanse my sins in Diana’s pure water
I will be baptized in the blazing truth of the sun.
My heart and soul to guard,
My virtue to keep.
I dare’nt trust my heart and soul to thee.

© Lesley Wood

https://soundcloud.com/rawkeyartproject/ophelia-dreams-somnambulist-waltz

Unrequested,
Cloaked figures surround your little bubble,
Poking and probing your armor.
You shriek every time they attempt to penetrate
And they shriek back at you, startled and confused.

Unsolicited,
They follow you around,
Picking up your footprints just after you
Mark them on the ground.
They drop petals of dead roses behind in your place
To show that in the end, you can leave behind beauty
If you so choose.

“They’re actually quite pleasant,”
You think to yourself.
You look back at them on occasion,
And they simply mumble amongst one another in a lull murmur.
Content.
Like nomads without destination in mind;
Like dreamers without expectation to find.
“I wish I could be more like them…“ you ponder.

Finally,
You’re near.
You see the edge getting closer.
The vastness of the ocean crashes against
The stone walls beneath your feet.
You wiggle your toes aloft the sharp edge,
Just enough that you can still keep your balance.
You notice in that moment the figures are finally silent.
You turn around
And with complete composure
They bow their hooded heads in sympathy,
And you realize then that your thoughts
Are not a secret to them.

Throwing your arms in the air,
You let the breeze caress your every pore.
For the first time
This nakedness doesn’t feel defenseless.

You smile at your friends
As they wave goodbye,
And fall backwards toward the water just as you would a feather down bed.
You watch the sky expand above you,
And the figures free whatever petals they have left
into the wind like doves’ feathers.