when our falsehoods are divided
I'm actually feeling quite pretty at the moment. My legs are firm-ish, my stomach is flat, my skin is less disastrous than usual, and although I'd still much prefer being a dark brunette again, I've discovered that I hate my natural hair colour far less than I thought. It's that time of the month, so my boobs are looking quite respectable, even if they do feel like someone's been tenderising them with a meat mallet while I'm asleep. And every time I suspect that my eyes are too close together, I remind myself that it could be worse: I could be Lleyton Hewitt. And he married a soap star 0.0035 seconds after meeting her, so there's hope for us mere mortals yet.
I spent yesterday morning (don't laugh) at university reading academic commentary on The Tempest, even though I had to use my friend's library card to borrow books because hey, apparently graduation means you're not meant to be taking books out of the uni library any more. WHO'D HAVE THUNKIT.
Anyway, I have this enormous keenness for poems inspired by that play, and yesterday I fell in utter love with W.H. Auden's The Sea and the Mirror which is a commentary on Tempest IN POEM FORM, I'm not even kidding, it's like beautiful meta-infused fanfic BY AUDEN, and every character's POV is a different poetical form, like a villanelle or a sestina. I tried to order my own copy from the Co-op but even I will not pay $28 for a single poem, no matter how awesome. And it's too long to type up in its entirety from the library copy. The hunt is on, universe. I am going to own a hard copy of this poem if it kills me.
I did type up some bits of it, though, in order to impart to you its awesomeness:
PROSPERO TO ARIEL
Stay with me, Ariel, while I pack, and with your first free act
Delight my leaving; share my resigning thoughts
As you have served my revelling wishes: then, brave spirit,
Ages to you of song and daring, and to me
Briefly Milan, then earth. In all, things have turned out better
Than I once expected or ever deserved;
I am glad that I did not recover my dukedom til
I do not want it; I am glad that Miranda
No longer pays me any attention; I am glad I have freed you,
So at last I can really believe I shall die.
For under your influence death is inconceivable:
On walks through winter woos, a bird’s dry carcass
Agitates the retina with novel image,
A stranger’s quiet collapse in a noisy street
Is the beginning of much lively speculation,
And every time some dear flesh disappears
What is real is the arriving grief; thanks to your service,
The lonely and unhappy are very much alive.
But now all these heavy books are no more use to me any more, for
Where I go, words carry no weight; it is best,
Then, I surrender their fascinating counsel
To the silent dissolution of the sea
Which misuses nothing because it values nothing;
Whereas man overvalues everything
Yet, when he learns the price is pegged to his valuation,
Complains bitterly he is being ruined which, of course, he is,
So kings find it odd that they should have a million subjects
Yet share in the thoughts of none, and seducers
Are sincerely puzzled at being unable to love
What they are able to possess; so, long ago,
In an open boat, I wept at giving a city,
Common warmth and touching substance, for a gift
In dealing with shadows. If age, which is certainly
Just as wicked as youth, look any wiser,
It is only that youth is still able to believe
It will get away with anything, while age
Knows only that it has got away with nothing:
The child runs out to play in the garden, convinced
That the furniture will go on with its thinking lesson,
Who, fifty years later, if he plays at all,
Will first ask its kind permission to be excused.
...
(there's heaps more of Prospero's section, but that's the beginning)
MIRANDA
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely,
As the poor and sad are real to the good king,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
Up jumped the Black Man behind the elder tree,
Turned a somersault and ran away waving;
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely.
The Witch gave a squawk; her venomous body
Melted into light as water leaves a spring
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
At his crossroads, too, the Ancient prayed for me;
Down his wasted cheeks tears of joy were running:
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely.
He kissed me awake and no one was sorry;
The sun shone on sails, eyes, pebbles, anything,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
So, to remember our changing garden, we
Are linked as children in a circle dancing:
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
I spent yesterday morning (don't laugh) at university reading academic commentary on The Tempest, even though I had to use my friend's library card to borrow books because hey, apparently graduation means you're not meant to be taking books out of the uni library any more. WHO'D HAVE THUNKIT.
Anyway, I have this enormous keenness for poems inspired by that play, and yesterday I fell in utter love with W.H. Auden's The Sea and the Mirror which is a commentary on Tempest IN POEM FORM, I'm not even kidding, it's like beautiful meta-infused fanfic BY AUDEN, and every character's POV is a different poetical form, like a villanelle or a sestina. I tried to order my own copy from the Co-op but even I will not pay $28 for a single poem, no matter how awesome. And it's too long to type up in its entirety from the library copy. The hunt is on, universe. I am going to own a hard copy of this poem if it kills me.
I did type up some bits of it, though, in order to impart to you its awesomeness:
PROSPERO TO ARIEL
Stay with me, Ariel, while I pack, and with your first free act
Delight my leaving; share my resigning thoughts
As you have served my revelling wishes: then, brave spirit,
Ages to you of song and daring, and to me
Briefly Milan, then earth. In all, things have turned out better
Than I once expected or ever deserved;
I am glad that I did not recover my dukedom til
I do not want it; I am glad that Miranda
No longer pays me any attention; I am glad I have freed you,
So at last I can really believe I shall die.
For under your influence death is inconceivable:
On walks through winter woos, a bird’s dry carcass
Agitates the retina with novel image,
A stranger’s quiet collapse in a noisy street
Is the beginning of much lively speculation,
And every time some dear flesh disappears
What is real is the arriving grief; thanks to your service,
The lonely and unhappy are very much alive.
But now all these heavy books are no more use to me any more, for
Where I go, words carry no weight; it is best,
Then, I surrender their fascinating counsel
To the silent dissolution of the sea
Which misuses nothing because it values nothing;
Whereas man overvalues everything
Yet, when he learns the price is pegged to his valuation,
Complains bitterly he is being ruined which, of course, he is,
So kings find it odd that they should have a million subjects
Yet share in the thoughts of none, and seducers
Are sincerely puzzled at being unable to love
What they are able to possess; so, long ago,
In an open boat, I wept at giving a city,
Common warmth and touching substance, for a gift
In dealing with shadows. If age, which is certainly
Just as wicked as youth, look any wiser,
It is only that youth is still able to believe
It will get away with anything, while age
Knows only that it has got away with nothing:
The child runs out to play in the garden, convinced
That the furniture will go on with its thinking lesson,
Who, fifty years later, if he plays at all,
Will first ask its kind permission to be excused.
...
(there's heaps more of Prospero's section, but that's the beginning)
MIRANDA
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely,
As the poor and sad are real to the good king,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
Up jumped the Black Man behind the elder tree,
Turned a somersault and ran away waving;
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely.
The Witch gave a squawk; her venomous body
Melted into light as water leaves a spring
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
At his crossroads, too, the Ancient prayed for me;
Down his wasted cheeks tears of joy were running:
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely.
He kissed me awake and no one was sorry;
The sun shone on sails, eyes, pebbles, anything,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
So, to remember our changing garden, we
Are linked as children in a circle dancing:
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.