(Mary standing on a boulder;
\n<\/i>a small sealed box between her feet)<\/i><\/p>\n
One brief and tranquil summer
\nI was led to pardon the timing of Fate
\nas shade went away from the shadow
\nbringing the hot spotted rooms of Bishopsgate
\nwhere the white beams of each ceiling smiled;
\nfrom this height dusk plummets & ignites
\nas distance narrows quickly to a lone house
\ntaken without hesitancy to remain Scandal’s family.
\nI forget…<\/p>\n
as shade went away from the shadow?<\/i>
\nTis it! The memory again grants my entry,
\nlayers of daylight lower into the sun’s iris,
\non the air appears my Percy’s sad cooing aziola
\ncome to fuse a pair of opposite seasons;
\nmy soles accept the glacier’s need to sharpen stone
\nmuch I actually feel begins in the foot,
\natop this still & cracked example of Time’s skill.
\nI retrieve…<\/p>\n
layers of daylight lower into the sea’s iris<\/i>
\nWas it! We took this same hour on the water,
\na quick quiet trip to find the forest in reflections,
\ngrief had not grown to the size of the creature
\nin me today, our minds adrift in the love of awe;
\nif I were to leap the only reason could be clear
\nsuch a short fall far too fair to satisfy,
\nleft to go on, the lost figurehead of the Don Juan.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
(Mary seated against a boulder;<\/i>
\na small sealed box in her lap)<\/i><\/p>\n
Testimony waits
\nbehind the tongue in thoughts
\n–such a sudden return to insight\u2014
\nanxious,
\nfor the air,
\nthe unpredictable destiny of speech,
\nmy brittle senses’ version of
\ntheir little bond
\nwitnessed, I hear,
\nthe day Byron\u2019s lip quivered.<\/p>\n
A trembling finger rests
\non the undeniable log;
\nothers were chosen
\nto burn my Percy\u2019s body,
\ngathered by our close fold,
\nrelieved, able to move
\nboth selves & stoves
\nto this salty grove,
\nas of yet unstricken
\nwith the yarns of his exit.<\/p>\n
Testimony?
\nShould I tell?
\nYes!
\nI was present then.<\/p>\n
When the candles snuffed themselves
\nI sought sleep;
\nlistening in the midst of
\nthe poet\u2019s verbal duel,
\nByron,
\non the Deity\u2019s side,
\n& Shelley,
\non the Skeptic\u2019s.<\/p>\n
I looked back once,
\nthen the lamp bore a new hour
\nmeant for the porous time
\nin such endless minds
\nbeyond
\nthe creeping futile line of morning\u2019s arrival.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
(Mary seated on a boulder;<\/i>
\na small sealed box in her arms)<\/i>
\nBreak out the laughter
\nfor thoughts on Permanence.<\/p>\n
The body’s wish to conquer,
\noverturn,
\neasily erase,
\nthat final & trusted appearance,
\nthe One
\nour shrunken circle saw as us:
\nas uncommonly solid:
\nas loyalty\u2019s proof–
\nthe Mind opposes its own beauty!<\/p>\n
Seal up the rupture
\n& cracks lengthening in Love.<\/p>\n
The eyes’ curse to recede,
\nsurrender,
\nkindly kindle
\nthat unseen & awful shadow,
\nthe Mystery
\nour current gloom
\ndissolves in us:
\nin July’s desertions:
\nin ecstasy’s clasp–
\nthe heart firms its own form!<\/p>\n
Loveliness,
\nfull of awe,
\nbrings no words;<\/p>\n
we end,
\nme, known by the needs of air,
\nand him,
\nthe sea\u2019s bright child,
\nfree of vows.<\/p>\n
Humankind,
\nwhat a strange spell!<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
(Mary kneeling face-down in the sand;<\/i>
\na small sealed box in grass by the beach)<\/i><\/p>\n
I<\/p>\n
There was a name
\nfor a man who had
\nthrown away God,
\nthe foul…,
\nno, I wouldn’t dare call it a word,
\nor would I say
\nI used it often on him,
\nno I wouldn’t turn to
\nsuch a woman of typical stirs.
\nHis eyes helped me
\nto accept the strolls.
\nHow he calmly held up
\nsly sisterly Clairae’s hand
\nto form the fist
\nmade of his and hers,
\nthe stare, or was it a glare,
\none that spoke loudly
\nto an hour I heard
\nthe two threads holding me upright snap.
\nOnce as she grinned,
\nher eyes joining his
\nto inject the searing,
\n“Enjoy your ink! Sure Maie can’t come?”
\nAnd once as he left first,
\nheedless,
\nno courage to comfort,
\noverlooking my eye-wide plea,
\n“I want someone to be happy with.”
\nAnd as the door latched
\nI felt Pain enquire, \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
II<\/p>\n
Claire was one of her names.
\n& Claremont seemed the other–
\nI’ve always understood why Percy
\ninsisted on her presence
\nin the carriage when dawn
\nled us from the London dirge,
\nand I stepped off at Calais
\nstrongly in love,
\nas strong as dear sister,
\nwith a man we knew to be married,
\nlife-full, often in
\nthe habit of sense and sensibility.<\/p>\n
III<\/p>\n
All that my journals tell
\nI planned to put to the pyre
\nmy worry built,
\nto accommodate
\na difficult companion,
\nthat fierce she
\nnow on the arm of Shelley,
\nout in the open, fearless,
\nby far the woman
\nmy great mother
\nsaw as Society\u2019s meed.
\nFor us, the prodigal step-sisters,
\nin tight with Incest<\/i> and\u2026
\npardon my laughter,
\nI hound my independence,
\na short remote hilarity.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
A Season at Bishopsgate, 1815 (Mary standing on a boulder; a small sealed box between her feet) One brief and tranquil summer I was led to pardon the timing of Fate as shade went away from the shadow bringing the hot spotted rooms of Bishopsgate where the white beams of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2376,"parent":229,"menu_order":2,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1765","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1765","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1765"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1765\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2231,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1765\/revisions\/2231"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/229"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2376"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1765"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}