The diary – lines that play the song so plain –
Seem
written by a foreign hand, and yet
Too familiar, and
sore, and gray as rain.
To read with eyes and mind that won’t
forget
The hand that wrote against the fading
sunset
Of
childhood it is my fate to try
Again to
balance memory and fancy.
Trevor’s
day began cold in the lonely
Season bleak of autumn turning winter,
Smoking,
coughing through slick streets, rainy
Wet trails cleared by thumping windshield
wiper.
It was a chill morn in mid-December.
Every bird
lay hidden in its nest
As ragged
storm clouds wandered from the west.
From the
dash, the love songs crackled static,
Sad reminders of his forlorn dreams –
Afternoons
spent gazing from an attic
Window blankly at the rainy streams
Outside, and dusty cobwebbed ceiling
beams,
Pondering
his lonely quest for truth’
He feels
the creeping sadness of his youth.
The rainy
years now pour into his soul.
Denied the only thing that he held dear,
That might
make his hemispheric heart grow whole,
That which was most blissful and most
fair,
That of sheltering breast and fragrant
hair –
Such was
mild Daphne. Clear her eyes,
Set like
azure gems in her countenance,
Orbs which
bore the sorrow and the longing
Of elves for the cold and wild galeswept
sea,
Balanced by
bright smiles, sweet and warming
As her soft curves – she could have been a
lea
Against harsh winter storms that lash bare
tree
And soak the earth
in which the faithful sleep
In cold and
desolate churchyards, buried deep.
Such was Daphne’s
beauty. So it happens
That after drizzly cross-town driving,
Trevor
Extinguishing
his cigarette, turns
His car beside a house of stony color,
The dark and Gothic House of God, another
Moment and
he opens a heavy door,
Descends
the dark staircase to the basement floor.
He marks
above his head the casement pane,
Narrow, leading to the gloomy sky,
Laced by
silver trails of running rain,
And turning on the light, he heaves a
sigh,
Takes guitar in hand, begins to play
Soft notes
and chords to the naked walls.
About his
spirit, melancholy falls.
Thus
inspired by his wintry Muse,
He builds progressions, somber minor key,
And
melodies, and strains of haunting blues.
Within the walls no other sound but he
Is heard. He feels he stands beneath the
sea,
So
isolated from everything.
It’s this
deep solitude that makes him sing.
And now a
sudden sound disrupts
His lonely spells. A presence stands
beside him,
Touches
his shoulder. It’s Daphne! Joy erupts
Within to behold another. His heart beats
hymn
Of comradeship, so glad is he. A whim
Invites
him, and so he bids her “Stay
Here,
linger with me, pass the day.”
He only
knew her as a Sunday friend,
A happy face among a pious crowd,
With kind
embrace for all at the end
Of
Mass, even for a stormy, proud
And wild youth such as he. Aloud,
She speaks
his name, inquires of him why
He seems
so sullen “No reason,” he says softly.
His castle
stormed now, he begins a song,
And plucks a happy verse, and then
another.
With
lilting skylark’s voice she sings along,
And fills the room with warmth to spite
foul weather.
Twice lovely is this music made together.
By her
witchcraft he is filled with wonder –
Emerging
from that chamber now they wander
Into the
lofty gilded sanctuary
Where lighted candles glow upon the altar.
The
vaulted arches soar, strong, yet airy,
And saints breath light from casements,
casting color
Upon the stony floor. Legends older
Than the
Scriptures linger in this hall
Where
ashes lie, sealed within the wall.
Innocent
Daphne Trevor’s friendship seeks,
But yet she is too young for love’s desire
–
Words of
comfort now she softly speaks,
Planting in his heart the seeds of fire,
Which shall consume him like a hungry
pyre.
Virgin
Daphne of the sunny meadow,
Light
footed as the April field lies fallow,
Gazing
raptured on the ocean wide,
Careless, swinging barefoot from tall
trees,
Playing
gentle games with the ramping tide,
Commanding still the savage windy seas,
Wont to sail with dove’s wings on the
breeze,
A sweetly
singing faery child true.
By your
kindness, know you what you do?
But so it
was in ages long ago,
When Apollo on that far-off mount
First
beheld her. Cupid’s cruel bow
Loosed its golden shaft to pierce his
heart.
The mighty god, for all his healing art,
And song,
and burning love, could never heal it,
And she,
pierced with lead, could never feel it.
So it is
with Trevor. Eyes now clear
Behold the angel shining there before him
In all
her light, in beauty without peer,
Her blue eyes radiant, and her woman’s
form
Whispers to him secrets soft and warm.
Outside,
the raindrops fell in sudden voices.
Inside,
his leaping, frantic heart rejoices.
Canto II
Inspired
by the fairest memories,
Sing, O Fancy, of that happy twain.
Rove upon
the blood-warm tropic seas
Formed while yet the youthful love is fain
To frolic, ere deceit’s bitter rain
Descends
lead upon the heart, and dashes
Joy into
an urn of funeral ashes.
Trevor,
and sweet Daphne, close together,
Sit before the agèd mighty organ.
Her
melodious fancy flights ascent liked feathers
Borne to heights on the Alpine-sweeping
föhn,
Her fingers flying quick as dancers when
Mad harvest
revels fill the drunken night,
While the
noontime sun reigns beyond sight,
Obscured
within a gray cloak now swirling snow
In hoary gusts upon the deserted city.
Warmly basking
in the amber glow
Of new-discovered friendship, happy Daphne
Presents her comrade a gift of song, no
ditty
Of lament,
lilting strains of joy,
Such as
are lifted on a summer day.
And
Trevor, charged with ecstasies of hope,
Listens, spellbound, with a steady ear,
His
passion stealing reason in swift gallop,
Until intoxication of desire
Engulfs him. Time and matter disappear,
And he
becomes a soul, a pair of eyes,
And ears,
electric senses, and breathless sighs.
But now
they quit the ancient lofty hall,
And wearing coats, they step into the
yard,
Stepping
light between the rows of marble,
Oblivious to the snow-fall driving hard,
Which stings and gnaws bare faces turned
windward,
And
gathers deep in dunes upon the wet
And
leaf-strewn withered earth without relent.
They
leap, and catch, and swing from hanging boughs,
Thus loosing crystal dust upon their hair,
And
startling hidden nests off cowering crows,
And calling to the west wind without care,
And breathing billows in the frosty air,
And
running, suddenly herself she flings,
Down and
makes the prints of angel’s wings.
And
indeed, she seems and angel to him
As they cavort and laugh like wild
children.
In happy
seaa,together splash and swim,
Trading fantasies, free and wanton.
Their delight among the groves seems
pagan,
But
Trevor, near to bliss as he has been
Can never
feel that lovers ever sin.
O Trevor,
restless weary wanderer,
Why couldn’t you be content to live that
day
For what
it really was? Why, O Trevor?
Why could you not embrace her love the way
That she would wish? How could you ever
pray
For more
than this from one who is at one
Mortal,
nymph, and angel, shining sun?
It seemed they were one mind. Each thought the other\
of similar intent – not so, alas!
The
trustful maiden loved him as a brother.
He loved her as a lover – the day would
pass
Misguided into sorrow, like shattered
glass
Once set
in a lovely storied window,
Like
geese polluting dark the once-pure snow.
Revel-mad,
they lock in fond embrace.
Her frost-bit fingers cut into his
shoulder.
With wild
kisses, he assaults her face.
His eyes lie buried deep within her hair,
Seeing but those wispy cascades fair.
Thus
softly snared in alabaster trap,
He burns
until his every nerve might snap.
But
gently releasing, you sensed something new
Within his eyes. For up til now he kept
His
passion bridled, but now, poor maid, you knew
That you must wound your friend, who
overstepped
The moment, and alone, inside you wept,
For you
knew you could not be his lover.
You had
but hoped to make his burden lighter.
Trevor,
coldly trembling and nervous as horses,
Now begins a stammering soliloquy.
Daphne
sadly listens. His words are thus:
“O Daphne, perfect as a symphony
Composed with skill, of all things fair
and lovely,
Can you
not sense the fever in my heart?
O
sweetest Daphne, may you never part
“From my
side! I ask you run with me,
Laugh with me, love me as I so love you,
With
longing deeper than the trackless sea,
Truer than the summer sky is blue,
Because I’m sick and fear I’ll die without
you.”
Thus
said, he stares into oppressive silence
With
glass-eyed look as though in witchèd trance,
In dread
of her reply, until at last
Her words strain through the tense
atmosphere,
“O
Trevor, Trevor, friend forever fast,
I only wished to chase away your tear,
And take your hand in friendship, but I
fear
That you
shall weep, for I can never give
What you
ask. Though you may have such love
As we
have known today for all time.”
So it was in that distant age, Apollo
Pledged
his holy love to her sublime,
Only to be felled by spurn’s cruel blow –
, It could never be. Amid the snow,
Trevor,
stunned amazed that yet his eyes
Perceive,
that grey his lungs still breathe, cries.
Canto III
Hail, Tinúviel, not of the Nine,
Yet the Muse of my faulted verse,
Keeper of
the melancholy wine,
You, who lead me on to love’s sweet curse,
You, who pour good balm my scars to nurse,
Lean, and
bless my ear with stanzas sweet,
That I
may make my song to you complete.
As the
cloak of dusk fell o’er the land
In ever deep descending shades of gray,
No
painted sunset painted vivid garland
About the west, no rising starry way,
Only gradual dying of the day
Like the
steady close of sleepy eyes.
Like a
fading sepulcher of sighs,
The
falling snow turned into freezing rain.
Standing in the final flickering twilight,
Trevor
sees upon her face the wane
Of love’s high noon with all her soft
delight,
Swallowed in the closing maw of night.
Silently,
he stares into her eyes,
As if
behind an icy wall she lies.
Stinging
drops of sleet fall from the clouds,
And soak his coat, and burn his naked
cheek,
Gather
hoary in his hair, as shrouds
Of darkest grief enfold his brain grown
weak.
Thus in vain he waits for her to speak,
To break
this interplanetary spell,
To
release him from this submarine hell,
But the
distance between them now is light-years.
She lingers, knowing there is naught to do
To dry
her brother’s frozen flowing tears,,
Until she turns at last to bid adieu,
In a voice of deep oceanic blue.
As she
starts her car to drive away,
She
cannot hear him whisper softly,” stay.”
As she
pulls out into the blinding storm,
He follows her some paces at a run,
Then
halting at the curb, he stands forlorn
As her taillights fade. Looking wan,
He stares. She rounds a corner and is
gone.
Uncounted
minutes fail to break his gaze,
Peering
forward through an empty daze.
The
numbing chill that wracks his body now
Is nothing to the icy caverns of
His
heart, and he is left to wonder how
She could so crush his all-consuming love.
He, raising eyes, petitions all above,
“Mary, or
God of Moses, can’t you see
My
plight? I pray you, send her back to me!”
His
searching eyes and ears perceive no answer
But that murky shower without mercy.
The ice
within his bones cries out for shelter.
And now, his brittle feet plod their way
To the warmer air of the sanctuary.
He opens
now the heavy creaking door,
His
bootheels landing loud on the narthex floor.
His steps
disturb the cold deserted stones.
Alone, he stands amid the echoing hall,
Amid
still vaults containing saintèd bones.
Golden rays from golden tapers fall,
Casting looming shadows on the wall.
As though
sealed among the dead he feels,
As he
before the towering altar kneels.
No
sunlight filters through the casement windows dark.
Naught illuminates the cross held high
Above his
head, save the shining wicks
Which dance, and mesmerize his weary eye
Until into a trance his senses fly
And blur,
and then shut out the candle’s beam,
And fall
into a deep, yet vivid, dream.
A pair of
disembodied eyes, he stood
Upon a hillside clothed in Grecian summer,
Witnessed
the god and the nymph in the fragrant wood,
Her wanton innocence, none could be fairer.
His passioned plea for her to be his
lover,
Her
frantic flight in fear, his closing stride:
He
overtakes her at the riverside.
Her
desperate prayer was answered by the water
God. From her sweet cursèd form she was
free.
As
smitten-mad Apollo at last caught her,
He held not her soft body, but a tree,
Full blossomed, robed in green, growing
lovely
On the
river’s bank, and he sat and wept:
For his
belovèd, lost, a vigil kept
By her
side, until the summer faded,
And goldenrod, and Black-eyed Susans grew
Abundant.
Shorter grew the days spent shaded
Beneath her crown. Chill winds of autumn
blew,
And one by one her leaves grew crimson
hue.
Now in
awe, the god beheld her beauty,
For so
her human form was not so lovely.
As the
dreamlike mirage falls away
From Trevor’s eyes, he sees the same pew,
Same
altar, casements, cross, as every day
Were there, yet somehow his mental view
Is altered, heightened, for he knows it’s
true
That Daphne
has become his own fair tree.
His
treasure now is her gift of beauty.
Strong
again, he steps into clear air.
The storm is passed. The stars are shining
bright,
And even
though the winter trees lie bare,
He cares not. He draws a cigarette, a
light,
Then starts his car and drives into the
night,
Knowing
that in sculpture, song, or rhyme,
He
somehow must record this day in time.
September-October 1982
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