Part I
As
a lone moon in Saturn’s sky unseen—
a
woman was raised on desert isle.
The
faces that would look on her and smile,
she
could not remember. Then shadowy
visions
passed before her mind, bright unearthed
from
when she was a babe before age three.
She
sat beneath a budding ancient tree;
she
wrote on parchment of compassion’s birth.
For
she had been marooned in youth’s cool dress—
cerulean,
never to see people,
or
another woman with clearest eyes,
with
their menial ways she was not bless’d.
In
the church she was not raised, no steeple
conducted
her being to other dyes.
T’was
true, she would wear no other colour,
with
her father, the ruler, Prospero,
and
his slave, a spirit named Ariel,
who
induced a slight wind to grow fuller:
the
wind acquiesced with subtle dancing,
then
rose with red Italian fierceness,
begat
a temper, became a tempest,
the
wind was a Thoroughbred horse prancing,
and
like a stately monsoon in cursive,
offshore
the island her father had ruled
with
his iron thumb: natives then, fitting
worship
him, in mind duly submissive,
no
less a god was he, his cruel fist curled.
Ariel’s
tempest had been his bidding.
Before
became a tempest, the breeze did
stir
along, and there so blessed faintly.
When
Miranda stood by the shore plainly
she
wished no ill upon the drowning ship.
Her
dress caught in the wind, then interspersed
with
shades of bewildered blue of the sea,
querying
whether enemies go free
when
there was no sign of drunken remorse.
Her
father, Prospero, conjured the storm
from
the magic arts within his old books,
studying
all his life, abandoning
the
Duke of Milan as rightful station,
what
he allowed, his younger brother took,
filled
with envy, rung with fraudulent ring.
Miranda,
while still a child, had been set
adrift
in a spoiled wooden hulk; ocean
in
spirited rage had deposited
Prospero
on far-away island, let
survive
the two with barely a bold hope,
barely
staving off their wayward hunger;
while
she was the only female—stronger,
son
of a witch, was his slave. They tied rope,
net
deep in the sea, the silver fish teemed,
while
she extracted cilantro from rocks,
beneath
her hands, the herb was harvested:
off
the cob coast of Africa she seemed
like
sunflowers forlorn. Alone they talked
at
length, lest in some way he be bested.
Part
II
Observing
the distress of distant sails,
Miranda
pleaded with her wronged father
not
to be cruel with those he saw, bothered
in
sorcerous dreams, his sight not failing,
by
the knowledge of their royal presence—
those
who, knowing, had done Prospero ill:
all
these twelve years, left on the desert isle.
Hearing
her concern, he next relented,
bringing
the royals safely to the shore.
No
harm was done to them, for though insane,
Prospero
responded to her beauty,
the
essence of womanhood, gone before—
bred
of nature and nurtured by the same.
Being
gracious to him was her duty.
Tossed
ashore like a white-warped mollusc shell,
Ferdinand
comes from the ship undeterred,
he
was separated from the others,
he
was rejected from the dire ship’s hull.
Son
of the king of Naples, he sees her:
Miranda,
clothed in sea, her hair with kelp,
is
small, and not without her father’s help,
she
is the tide upon the rock, inferred
that
she is only clothed in blue that’s spun,
her
kindly manner catches him off guard,
her
eyes, pure and deep as island tempest,
with
his stalwart song, he begins to win
the
beauteous girl with wrinkled sandy bar.
Her
father denies his only request.
Polonius
then forbids Miranda:
she
shall not say her name to those reigning,
she
knows not flirting, nor art of feigning,
if
she gives way she may be asked to dance.
Her
name seemed to originate as crowned,
where
her hands, from wrist to lucid finger,
traced
the sudden forbidden word, linger
on
her lips, she spoke it. Her father frowned.
She
would go against his direct command,
her
heart was not an antique dancing ball—
with
her direct momentum breaking wave
upon
the desert mind and parched lemons
in
the possession of a lone royal;
it
was her lovely soul for him to save.
Only
Miranda was incarnate wife,
stating
no less to his deserving ears,
proposing
to now dine away the years
and
spend her handsome wealth on his one life.
She
had the wholesome and calm demeanor
of
one with little invented pretense:
of
her melody there was a sequence
that
stoked the plain island to industry.
Seeking
Ferdinand’s firm dedication
to
his daughter, and his loyal kindness,
Prospero
would test his love—eloquent
trite
requests—that he, in abdication
would
abandon her—like a waterless
river,
or a hell-bent star, then resent.
Part
III
It
was not true that royal Ferdinand
would
not slog, untethered, through deep black bogs,
that
he would not carry heavy cut logs,
the
eye of his heart was now contraband.
It
was not true that emerald suitor
was
not one to set sterling compass by.
It
was hand in hand, she gave dulcet sigh,
as
he plied her with purple passion fruit.
’Spite
Prospero’s fatherly resistance,
Ferdinand
would see clarion mirror
in
Miranda’s virgin fifteen-year-old
and
the azure ageless sea-like garments.
Of
island rules, Ferdinand did not fear,
serenading
her in, now loved, she’s told.
Miranda
and Ferdinand gazed then each
at
one another, swore their undying
love
from this life into the next, crying
sea,
next turquoise; Ariel to impeach
all
higher authority that held him:
Prospero
as ruler of the dark slaves
of
the spiritual world he had made
subservient
to him, he had incurred.
“O
Miranda, water’s bride; sky closest;
blue
bud to leafy tree, beryl-mirrored.
The
reflection of my newborn morning
in
you, is best seen after a Tempest,”
said
Ariel. “Then pray we have censored
all
violence of this isle and churning.”
Emily Isaacson
