Dear Mary Angel

The first part of a much larger poem is complete; I say complete but I really mean "rough draft." And this poem is featured in my novel entitled Gardens of Love Play. It is, to my utter amazement, a romance - not my typical fare. It's the poem, however, that's giving me problems.

Part one was simple: A free form monster reaching upwards of some six-hundred lines; a train of thought piece. But now comes the hard work; revising and rewriting to a specific structure of specific iambic foot, and rhyming scheme - and this is just part one. There are two more large parts of six to eight hundred lines each. And between each part is a transitional piece of about 49-52 lines which leads into the next greater piece. And at the end will be the same 49-52 lines in summation; an epilogue as succinct as I can manage, without over-doing it, or making it all seems cheated. All in all the whole piece should come out to about 28 or 29 hundred lines. And yet, only the very first part will make it into the novel.

The novel itself follows the meeting and chaperoned engagement of Angelina Marni and Etienne Vernay. The setting is Venice, Italy... but not the Venice you know; the canals are filled with gardens, and the gondolas float on air. It sounds a bit far-fetched, but the story works. I'm about a fifth of the way through the writing.

The fabric of the smaller poems will be unique, in that I'm incorporating the styles of two different forms: the Anaphora, and the Villanelle. Three modified Villanelles totaling fifty-two lines per transitional poem (though the villanelle is difficult to detect as I've changed it drastically). Three stanzas of fifteen lines each and a seven line summation. The hard part is the Anaphora (it's tricky), it's proving difficult to make it seem like normal language - not contrived. Here is what I have so far:

     If the grande hall never stood, never danced, never could
     If lovers never kissed, never danced, never should
     If starlit rhythms never moved, never danced
     If lovers never touched, never moved, nor romanced
     If they met not each other at the edge of dance
     If they danced not each other in shared romance
     If they held not each other at the heart of dance
                                                 at the center of dance
     If hands never clasped, never felt, never knew
     If hearts never lit, never felt, never grew
     If breath never stilled, never stirred, never filled
     If lips never brushed, never stirred, never willed
     If loves never flowered, never bloomed in dance
     If loves warm embraced never sought romance
     If loves chaste kiss never longed to dance
                                                 to the center of dance
     But they did these and more and danced on the shore
     Their love rose and fell on every trough and swell
     They danced, and kissed, and loved, and more
     Till chance bade them dance t'wards another shore

122015.115930.1 - lines 1 - 19
122815.034628.6 - lines 11 - 20

I've a ways to still.



Dec 28 ~

I've had some time to work on the poem and thought I'd add them above... lines eleven to twenty. So I'm about a third of the way finished.

Line eleven carries with it a lot of meaning for me: "If breath never stilled," is that catching of ones breath, when we see someone or something that makes us draw in/hold our breath in awe. Then there's "never stirred..." Have you ever seen a thing that stirred you? aroused or woke something inside you? And did it ever "will" you to want more, learn more, seek more? That's how I think romance works on us... how we come to fall in love.



Dec 30 ~

The rereading of the last four lines... ouch. I hated it. It was too much of a departure from the preceding 16, I just had to rewrite.

     How then did we meet and dance from the shore?
     How then did we sweep, and dip, dance and more?
     How could we dance through trough and swell?
     How we loved, kissed, and more I can't tell
                                Yet here we are at the center of dance

122915.052218.6 - lines 17 - 21


This fits much more nicely, as it follows the pattern I used for the preceding lines. Before, when read aloud, it tended to stumble... loose it step, it's rhythm, but with these changes it transitions well.

Part one of the poem (the larger work) tells the story of how Angelina sees Etienne on the outer shore; the edge of dance within the Grande Hall. How she approaches him and how they begin to dance - how she teaches him to dance, and what it all means. She points out the mistakes other couples make despite the apparent perfection of their dance - it isn't perfect, every dance is flawed by design (a flaw everyone is powerless to overcome). In time they dance to what seems the center of the hall where a great fountain rises; where great marble Orsels (a kind of mermaid) pour out a wine (ambrosia) from great urns. From this they drink, and rest.

A steward of the Dance approaches and tells them the Lord of Dance, the Lord of the Great Hall, has invited them to dance "deeper," on the next level. It is then they notice a great stair case leading upward. Whereon the first level they had already danced was filled with thousands of couples, this upper level boasts but hundreds. This is where the deep waters are, where commitment, compromise, perseverance and sacrifice come into play. Without these no relationship can flourish. It is to this level are come; to learn more of dance (there is a third level to which they eventually come, only to discover there is yet another level from which none ever return).

The second level is in rough draft. I've thought about the third, put some thoughts down on paper but as of yet it lies unwritten. The fourth and last part will be but a poem; short and sweet; the grand summation.

The whole work is a metaphor for life, love, and relationships; the ones that end quickly or over time, and the ones that endure, even beyond death. I've been working on it for about fourteen years now - the novel and it's many parts and pieces. I've never heard of a story that even remotely parallels this.

I hope to finish the work by the end of next year, and then we'll see if anyone else find this tale worth a read. The first part of the poem can be read here: The Dance
And the first three chapters of the book can be read here: In the Gardens of Love Play

It is my hope that you have had a wonderful Christmas, full of love and joy, and that the months ahead give you more of the same, and blessings from God. The Lord knows I have been in love with the nineteen year old girl for as long as I can remember; a chaste love, for sure; with a memory, an ideal. It's like the poem I wrote for you..."A snapshot within my memory, never fading, never changing."  And I honestly don't know how to stop.

Until next time,

Ciao


E

Dearest Mary Angel

I am a poet. There, I said it. And it's true. it's taken 30 years to say it - to realize it.

All my life I wondered what I would be when I grew up, if ever I grew up. But then I realized something. I am what I've set my hand to do these many years. Even before I met you, I was a writer. I wrote my first poem (that I remember) at seventeen. Even while in that crazy fraternity, I was writing poems. My first short story was in the seventh or eighth grade. I have spent all my life writing.

Why did it take me so long to discover this, and to embrace it?


With love,



E

Dearest Mary Angel

It's been almost a month since my last letter. I've been very busy of late so, many apologies for not writing sooner.

Work has been especially stressful. I have a webpage rollout that's due by 5pm this approaching Friday, and if I had to be completely honest I'd have to admit that I'm only fifty-percent there. If this project is not ready on time it could very well be job-threatening. Hence my unusually high stress level. When I was a mere production assistant the most I had to worry about was whether I had all my keys and graphics ready for the five and six news. Now that I'm in sales things are much more fluid; no longer am I under the gun of newcast deadlines, now I am faced with fluid deadlines-- not every deadline is solid, they usually creep forward or back. I say this one is solid, but it could well move forward OR back. My experience is that they tend to move forward more often than back.

When I began this "all things politics" page I saw an opportunity to do something I thought would be meaningful. I am an über conservative, naturally, so I thought of this as a way to have a voice. The only voice I've had thus far are the few choice quotes from certain founding fathers-- just picture me thumbing my nose at all those 'evil' liberals.

There are scheduled (though I could skate with fewer) six second tier pages from which the main page will link. Two of these pages can't even be populated till April 2nd when Florida's qualifying of candidates comes to an end, and the complete lack of issues and amendments scheduled for any of the three states I have to cover in all this.

So, realistically, I have only three more pages to build before deadline. But here's the problem: it took a solid eight hours to build the one from scratch, with sales agents bugging me to fix this or that. I have too many other distraction! I know I'll get through it all; I always do. My best work usually comes under pressure.

This past Friday I awoke so stressed that I couldn't even function when I arrived at work and had to take a thirty minute timeout the moment I arrived. I had to break free of the stress, and that meant I had to write.

So I gave myself 30 minutes, and here is the result...

In the Moment

They appear as threads
in the hackneyed tapestry
New, their life and end unfathomed
these moments when eyes first meet
hands first touch
lips first brush
And like that spark struck
burn quickly out
     ~the moment gone
Defined as the space between the when
of eyes meeting and parting
hands touching and parting
lips brushing and parting
Time is the beggar within these little ages
holding out its hand for more primacy
But it is Impression which sits upon
these thrones of relevance
Each new thread in our hackneyed tapestries
is experienced not in time
but in Impression
     ~duration goes hungry here
Moments are fleeting and singularly unique
Moments are texture
in the tapestry of our lives
Eyes see what hands feel what lips soon forget


ELAshley
031110.084502.1
Revisions:
031110.045926.6

031110.055152.6


Latter that day at my other blog I had this to say about the subject matter:

I thought back to a time several years ago when I took a lonesome trip to St. Petersburg to visit my grandfather. My little sister also happened to live there as did one of my aunts and uncle. So there I was the first late-afternoon of my weekend trip, visiting at my sister's place; a little hole in the wall that probably cost more to live in than what I currently pay. And when I say 'hole in the wall' I mean it was a typical 70-plus year-old Florida cinder-block building-- perhaps a small motel at one time --converted to tiny tiny apartments, hidden in the heart of the city by a small grove of oak and short palm.

There I was sitting on an old dog-hair covered couch considering the oppressive heat outside, the relative coolness of the apartment, and a KISS tune blaring from the speakers. And something clicked (as only some things can under these circumstances). I realized that Time has no bearing on 'the Moment'. That is to say, 'Moments' are not bound by any set length of time. Moments can be a split second in duration or several minutes, but the passing of time has no control or say as to how long the Moment can endure. Moments, they are fleeting, yes, but they cannot be truly measured, or their durations anticipated. The Moment begins and ends as it chooses, generally when something new intrudes, breaking the thread. And a new moment begins.

Fast forward quite a few years... this morning in fact. And I'm wondering about the moment I'm in; the one wherein I'm trying to hit the reset button. Trying to get past the log jam and the fear of failing at a task that MUST get done-- a Job-Killing 'must' should I fail. Well, writing has always been good for me in this respect. It always allows me to clear my head and reach that button-- you know, the one that says 'Reset'?

I know. I'm weirder than anyone you've probably ever known. But I can't help that; It's who I am.

Thanks for listening Mary Angel.


All my love,

Eric

Dearest Mary Angel

Happy belated Valentine's Day. Here is what I did for much of last week. Nice, you think?

I made somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty floral arrangements, and in the process wore myself out. I'm too old for twelve hour days with little opportunity for breaks, let alone sitting a spell. But I did manage to take a few photos. And though I wasn't near as fast as the boss would have liked, I deliberately took time to think on a good many different things.

My lunch went well with LeNee` week before last, but she's just not all that into developing a friendship. I have to initiate everything. Being lonely means you ante up too much of your heart too quickly in every hand you're dealt. I knew my feelings would get hurt by this but I also know I said I didn't care; better to try than sit out the dance, right?

I've never been a good dancer, so whoever I end up with must be patient in teaching me. Speaking of which, I wrote a rather long free-form poem for a book I'm about halfway through titled The Gardens of Loveplay. You can read it in its lengthy entirety here. I plan and hope to finish it this year.

When LeNee` and I are together she encourages me, but when we are apart I hear nothing from her. No calls, no texts, no email. Even when I contact her there's no guarantee she will respond. In light of this I've decided to ignore her. If she's interested (which I don't believe she is) she'll get in touch with me. I promise not to hold my breath. So, I have begun to seek other opportunities.


This past week I spent the four days prior to Valentine's Day at the flower Shop. I took vacation from my primary job to work at the secondary. Twelve hour shifts as I've already said, doing little more than arranging flowers. Friday was a miracle of cold wet fat snow falling thickly from a leaden sky... I took photos. I'll post them at E's Third Eye in the next few days.

I've squandered much of the morning on things other than the web page I have to build and post before 5p tomorrow. I have much more to say, but it'll just have to keep till next time.

All my love

God be with you


Eric / Etienne

Dearest Mary Angel

Often I sit at my desk trying to find motivation. And in those times, almost exclusively, I wonder how I got here; I can trace the events, but I can't see either rhyme or reason for having arrived in this chair, in front of this computer, doing what I do. I know there is purpose. I just can't seem to make it speak in a language I understand. God never creates anything without purpose, so I know I have mine. But what is it? I'd ask Him, but He and I have not been on speaking terms for some time now.

I unlock my door, turn on the computer, and go about the business of unloading my tote: three quarts of water on the shelf to my left, a bag containing either a sandwich comprised of crunchy brown bread and turkey or peanut butter, a tangerine or apple, a few CDs, a tin of Altoids. I'll then stare at the orders in front of me, stare into the monitor, and wonder just when I'll begin. A CD goes into the drive. It doesn't help. Maybe I'll feel better later, I tell myself. Maybe I just need time to noodle over what I hope will be an otherwise good day; I have more of them than you might think.

Sometimes I think it's the music-- songs to stir the savage soul, or just as likely to weight it down; keep it from flying. Fly like an eagle? a great sentiment, but a depressing song. In a world full of people only some want to fly... isn't that crazy? Seal sees it. I live it. I want to fly, but will my wings support me? Fear and I have been wrestling for more than forty-five years. I worry that I, like Icarus, will dare the sun and fall to ruin.

But these are secret thoughts. I do not share them because there's no one with whom to share. There is someone I can talk to but she is a difficult woman to share a moment with; if she were a dancer her feet would bleed. She works too hard, but when I have her in front of me she listens. She doesn't push me away. Again, when I have her with me, she doesn't push me away. We don't hold hands, we don't kiss, we don't speak of a mutual love we share. As much as I would love to be loved by her, I would rather learn to be her friend. But the baser me wants what it wants. I fight these thoughts and feelings every day; I lose as often as I win and I wonder what God must think of me.

I was thinking recently, with the turn of another year, on the desert loneliness that is the sound of most Jackson Browne songs, and the freedom he enjoys in singing as though he were speaking; absent the short-lined verses of metaphor and innuendo that populate most lyrics these days, his straight language and ideas are often a welcome breath of fresh air. So I began to write, hearing Jackson Browne sing my song, his voice to my lyrics and melody.


Afire For You

I- I've been alone long, and a dreamer
For most of my life
Though I desire soft clean linens I'll still
Sleep in the desert tonight
Another night of tossing and turning
Another night of sleeping alone
And when the morning light comes to find me
Through every hour spent trying to atone
I'm still very much alone

II- Chasing sleep down long corridors
Seems that's all I ever do
All I'm ever left with come daybreak
Are my fitful dreams of you
Another night beneath the cold desert sky
Another night of sleeping alone
Every morning that comes only serving to remind me
Despite every hour spent trying to atone
I'm still very much alone

O, And how I've wandered
How I've carried this torch for you
Never looked in your eyes, never made to ponder
How my love for you strengthened and grew
Though I be cut to the bone
And suffer to atone
I'm always very much alone

III- When I close my eyes and dream of you
While sleeping deeply through the night
The stars wheeling 'cross a glittering sky
Making love til the morning light
How do you leave the bed you've made with love
Shoulder your pack and continue to roam?
'Cause I've spent my life, all my sins to atone
Yet I'm still very much alone

O, And how I've wandered
How I've carried this torch for you
Never looked in your eyes, never kissed your soft smile
Yet my love for you strengthened and grew
Though I be cut to the bone
Giving my whole life to atone
I'll still be very much alone

. . .

If there's an angel set to observe me
Dogging my e-ver-y step
Could he have not seen fit
To lead me out of the desert
And into your loving arms?
O, Into your loving arms
With my heart on fire for you
My heart afire for you


ELAshley
Part I - 010210.11>.6
Part II - 010410.11>.6
Part III - 010810.11>.6
Revisions:
011210.111002.6


I know this was written for someone specific, though I do not yet know her name with any degree of certainty. Whoever she is, I hope she allows me freedom enough to be as open and prolific with my most inner self as each moment demands. Someone for whom a kiss speaks more than any number of letters I've written you can express in terms of unconditional love and devotion. Which reminds me of something I wrote to you last November-- speaking of kisses and moments:

"A kiss is two pair of lips embracing the soul of one fleeting moment."

Sometimes I surprise myself with the thought-life I've been gifted with-- the level of profundity of which I am capable. Sometimes I surprise even myself.


Thanks for listening dear Mary Angel. I will now try to get some work done.

All my love,


Eric

Dearest Mary Angel,

I wrote something the other evening. I was up late doing it too. It's interesting to me that I have written more in the last couple of months than I've written in the last year. Last years New Year's eve poem was a departure from war and conflict, concentrating for the first time on my own personal war with loneliness.

And that's where I am. And yet, where I am now, I've found new inspiration. This I believe is why so much writing of late. This someone truly inspires me. And even though I know she's not interested in me as I am in her I'm not bothered by it, which is refreshing.

So I found myself writing introspectively of the past, the present, and future. She's the fulcrum upon which this poem is balanced but she is not the object. If there is an object, she is yet unknown to me.

So I started out with a phrase... 'something really bad'. I thought at the beginning it would be a bad composition, because I wasn't in the mood to write. But the more I opened up to what was churning in my heart I realized I had to find a way to incorporate the line into the body, rather than personify the it in the whole.



"Something Really Bad"

Moving through the eastern sun
I saw you first upwind of tomorrow
Hands caressing the long tall grasses
Heart swung knells of bells you rung
For all tomorrow's sorrow
And here I am wanting, wishing too
For early morning and morning dew
Wanting and wishing only for you

I caught you in the noonward tides
Sun above, beginning to fall
Embraced you in these arms of summer
Raim'd in love and light besides
And dreams we swore, nor did forestall
Now here I am wanting, and wishing too
I'd caught you in the morning
   ~Made love upon the dewy dew
No more wishing, but wanting of you

The pipers in the trees
Orchestrating accompaniments
To the rhythm of our cries
Perfect echo to our sighs
Safe in long tall grasses
Away from all their prying eyes
Something really bad could happen
Were it not for our many allies

Sun falls swiftly in the sky
Shadows threshing our lover's bed
Our dewy bower in sepias warm
Where long tall grasses yet lie
Where love, life and promise wed
Yet here we still are wanting, wishing too
We could see again the morning
   ~Make love upon the early dew
Ever wanting and wishing for you
   ~You for me
Ever wanting and wishing for you and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing forever for you
And you for me
Wishing again to be

Pipers in the trees
Orchestrating accompaniments
To the rhythm of our sighs
Perfect echo to our cries
Safe in the tall grasses
Away from all of their prying eyes
Something untoward might very well happen
Were it not for all our many allies
Here in the tall tall grass
Ever wanting or wishing for you, and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing for you, and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing forever for you
And you for me
Wishing again that we might be
Again


ELAshley
110309.111456.6
Revisions:
110309.104203.6
110409.031117.6





I'd like to think there was a melody in my head while I wrote, but rarely is this the case. And I know it's not a particularly inspiring title, but for now it is what it is. Perhaps I'll change it... but not today.

I listened to David Gray's Babylon (Live) throughout this effort...

If you want it
Come and get it...
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now

What I want I cannot have, and that dearest Mary Angel has been the story of my life. But I'm not complaining. I am somewhat content where I am, with but a vague internal impression of lurking wantonness. I guess you could say I'm experiencing my very own mid-life crisis. No Harleys or Corvettes... Just lots of introspection, and a very deep and powerful desire to belong to someone.

This someone I mentioned prompted an exchange where 'the Kiss' was pondered and mulled. I quoted one of my characters in the book I'm writing, who said of Romance,

"Romance is a blanket woven from deep affection, and a desire to fulfill another's desire. Perfection in romance is when both share the work of weaving."

--Angelina Marni
From The Gardens of Loveplay

I sent her one of my poems, One Kiss, then reflected upon just what a kiss was. This is what I came up with,

"A kiss is two pair of lips embracing the soul of one fleeting moment."

This too did I share with her. I guess you could say I am flirting with her, but I also know she's not particularly interested in me, in that respect. But then... my ability to read women hasn't changed since I unconsciously ran from your overtures all those many years ago.

And I'm listening still to David Gray's Babylon

Friday night I'm going nowhere
All the lights are changing green to red...

So I'm doing what I can to reverse that... all the lights changing red to green... looking for that woman who will put a ring on my finger.


Until then, I am ever yours, sweet Mary Angel


E