There is a voice in my head that will not be stilled, but I cannot hear it or remember what it says. The voice is like a song with no words or tune; it is like the clicking of an iron stove expanding in the heat; it is like the drumming of a grouse--a dull pulse, endless, an almost-silence.
The rain is falling, falling; and now the light is creeping through the empty maples, the skeletal arms of the birches. Last night I dreamed about Ovid, but I don't know what I was dreaming. I want, I don't want, to invent a tale to replace the truth. I remember nothing, but I could make you believe me.
I could.
3 comments:
masterful prose poem.
And I love it.
Even if that's not what you want it to be. =)
"There was a hyll, and on the hyll a verie levell plot,/Fayre greene with grasse. But as for shade or covert was there not.
As soone as that this Poet borne of Goddes, in that same place/Sate downe and toucht his tuned strings, a shadow came apace."
The Tenth Booke of Ovid's Metmorphoses. The Arthur Golding Translation (1567)
So, so lovely.
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