her harrow fingers plying
plowing
pillaging
plundering
(ploy or play
who could say)
my wheaten hair
swaying in the
song of her
susurrations
sensual, sinful
sacred she seems
watershed (water shed)
her lips
brimming
damming (damning) my
eyes
crying, weeping
as blood
falling
as petals
as the taking
of wax
into
smoke
into visions
and shadows
and unspoken
sighs
into the falling
that rises
the dawn
anew
14 comments:
Mary may have found this note among Virgil's papers. There was no date, although it looked recent.
And once again it never occurred to me that this might be Mary. I really need to stop and read your titles. I thought this was present.
I like to think he might have written it and kept it in pocket. I often write things out on scraps and send them through the wash. To think that perhaps once it might be held of some significance by someone else is a sweet thought.
Erin, I originally wrote it in past tense then went back and changed it to present as I though of Virgil, in the early morning hours before dawn, in his last hours on earth, jotting a few notes about the night, about Mary, and the event, the night, is still so fresh in his mind, he has not slept so there is no break, that he writes of it in the present, as if he is reliving it in the present, as if it is still alive for him and not something that is past or passed.
The more I read this post in light of coming events, namely that Virgil is about to die, in her arms, and I see the wording that he uses, well, the note haunts and I wonder how Mary handles it, interprets it, especially in light of the second stanza, which seems to imply he does not know how she feels. And I imagine how those fews words, considering what we know of her feelings, I wonder at the dagger of those few words to her heart.
As far as anyone knows, these were the last words Virgil wrote.
the note was found by accident -- was it ever meant to be found?
Sue
Sue, we don't know yet. One of two things happened. As Virgil was dying in her arms, he either handed her his notebook, which is where this note was found; or, in the brief period between him dying and the soldiers carrying him away, she reached inside his jacket, found the notebook, and took it. I'd like to think he gave it to her, but I have a feeling it was otherwise.
A preview of how this note might have first been read:
I found a quiet place, away from the war, away from everyone else, both of which were small miracles. His notebook was small, a black cover, worn and dirty. It was still damp in his blood. The pages stuck. I gently separated them with my nail and as I began to read, his mind opened to a depth I could not fathom and I began to drown in a language deeper than I could swim, as if, from the grave, he was pulling me under, revealing a serenity and sensitivity, seductive as sand and sea, shells and sun, of the call of all things free of the hands of men.
Even in its ache, this is just utterly and completely beautiful.
Thanks S. :-)
She continues:
I read, almost dreamlike, for I have not slept. Beside his book, that blackness, those words like hooks in my eyes, that damning man who will not be back, who will not allow me life, who upon the writing of his mind, has stolen mine. But beside that torrent of pages, they lie. Like little paddles without a handle. I have not the night, nor the knight for that matter, but I have the lance; actually, the lances, standing ready in their foil, their caps, ready to swim in the vale of my veins, to warm what is cold, to send me where this army will not.
I see her discovering it. I see her reaching inside of his clothing afraid to, afraid not to. I see too much blood.
I should never take your posts lightly. I should never mistake the year. This is all very serious even if fictional.
If I had but the courage, for what they say is but a another lie. There is no courage in the glass. A pathetic pathology, but nothing else. The numbing of common sense, the narrowing of vision, but as I look upon the paddles, those little tubes ready to take me home, my pilfered plunder as the wheatened one might say, I know I can't. Not this night. So I read more from his blood stained journal. This final testament. And I look at the pages toward the end, those blank pages filled now with nothing. And I know tomorrow they will still be blank as they will next week and the year after. Blank of him. Blank of me. Blank of us.
Erin, I'm seeing that too. I'm seeing her reach in his jacket, almost instinctually, and tucked inside is this small black notebook, the size of a soldier's bible, in the pocket over the heart it is, and this she takes and then he is gone and Kate is pulling on her arm. I think this is how it was.
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