Da Capo Aria of Miranda

 

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

Da Capo Aria of The North Wind

Part I 

When a deer in the field lays down its head

in Orithyia’s lap, cooking smoke, rise

from the wide courtyard, then the North Wind cries,

flaps to and fro like a moth almost dead.

It could once render the earth a frozen

wasteland, where I could not, when thirsty, drink

from the glassy river, not even think.

A man with ice in his beard had chosen

me for his wife, and his cloak billowed long

behind him in the gale, unyielding late

had I been, and not domesticated,

but a lush garden of hyacinth, fawns

were born in my arms as it was my fate.

I held all Athens, bright, honey-sated.

 

I was a mortal princess, who gathered

flowers for garlands divine, my sisters

danced with me on the banks of the river

Ilisos near Athens’ gate and powers.

We twirled and sang like school girls, innocent

long into the afternoon where plovers

plaintive called, grey herons bent, sandpipers

rose and flew with our cries, then reticent.

Under chaste branches, we grabbed hold, fingers

delicate laced around the birds and trees,  

oleander, light and fresh, blossoming

where light and harmony early linger,

their allure: spices radiate in tea,

like the warmth of afternoon in late spring.

It was here the Anemoi, bearded wind,

stole my cluster of grapes while I was wrapped

in a cloud, in the viciousness grappled,

the elements’ finesse both matte and thin.

This was no bludgeoning dark storm’s thunder,

it was immediate, I was sucked dry

by my aggressor who ignored my cry:

Boreas’ violet-winged horse of winter.

Carried away, I was dark-abducted

while the cormorants circled empty grave,

and the Old World sycamore wept and fought

off winter while turning from green, blood red,

bowed its luminous spreading head and staved

off death before the river’s horrid plot.

 

He made me goddess of the mountain winds

but I would rage in my mind, voice escaped

my throat in a roar in our stony cave

on Mount Haimos. No, I would not rescind,

and became the goat-like mother of snow,

both fallen and immortal, I bequeathed

pearls and threw them in his face like fine lace,

before his goatish hair had burned coals low.

Earth-coloured mantle swept divinity,

as I was cast in women’s ravished role

of pouring and pouring soup in black pot,

where witchcraft’s heavy cauldron tempted me,

of the wintry herbs I grew from dank holes—

the henna soil of humanity’s lot.

 

Part II

 

I gave him two sons, the bright dusk Boreads,

the gold-haired children named Calais and Zetes,

who, from whitened nodes, sprouted their smooth wings

of feather or stone it was rumoured, lead

swans that eat the chaste berries from the trees,

as locks of graceful hair fell long from them,

as grape-white roses grow from gracious stem,

as monks’ collectives desire chastity.

I collected my ashes where they lay,

gathered up my tears from the cooking fire,

and here, I found my rough hands exhausted,

white willow bark was extracted for pay,

for the pains of loneliness and the dire

end of bitterness of those accosted.

 

Cleopatra, Chione, two daughters

I bore, with eyes of rain, and hair, sunshine

threaded: the oils of Damask rose and thyme,

distilled, gathered in the soul of laughter.

In token fertile soil of ancient Greece,

my first daughter grew figs, apples, and pears,

my second grew lettuce and cucumbers,

garlic, and onions, from small seeds of peace.

Beside their green vegetable beds, they grew

windflowers with vivid velvet petals,

Dianthus, to make ceremonial

flower crowns for the Olympics, when threw

the discus in competition, medals

of the gods, as a reward, bountiful.

Cleopatra, illustrious daughter,

was a vision of the moonlight alone,

was subject to the tide’s pull, and sea’s moan,

carnation crown in her hair, the former

capricious goddess was solemn vision

as she then married Phineus of Thrace,

her faith in him no demon could erase,

with vigour she carried out her mission

to live in the valley, not icy falls,

and grow like a vineyard of heady grapes,

to once and for all avenge her mother.

For she was a heroine, and stood tall;

she was averse to the North Wind’s cold rape,

and she was loved, she could love another.

 

Part III

 

When the Boreads reached manhood, boasting

of their long curling hair, they rose ringing

into the sky from their soft sprouted wings

against all demons of darkness fighting.

They stood with Cleopatra, side by side,

unflinching, they warm-wind-like hummed through rain,

and drove the freezing ice away of pain,

while heavy grotesque monsters could not fly.

The Boreads carried spears, with iron

points, and their engraved shields were polished bronze

mirror, so you could see your hair-framed face.

In the handles of their shortswords, lions—

on the xiphos, their double-edged weapons.

For midnight attacks, enemies would brace.

The wind brothers, fit athletes, thrust their spears,

blood of the lower levels dripped dark orange,

the caverns of the deep were dragon’s lore,

when scaly creatures were gored to arrears.

The Harpies appeared on the horizon,

they had with them their wind-royal hostage:

Phineus the king, of Zeus—demi-god,

for he had been seduced by a second

wife, who told him to condemn his children

to blindness and torture. The gods punished

him, sentencing him to Harpies’ torments.

Wings carved the rising sons of the North Wind:

they would not kill the Harpies; they gave chase,

sending them reeling to the underworld.

 

When all earth hangs sorrowful, in despair,

I am like the morning after the night,

binding up the old dark with glowing light,

and gather up the sheaves in my black hair.

I am wild blue hyacinth after rain:

in an earthy garden, satin and smooth,

nonchalant above the ebony hues

of the soil, banal and bright floral pain.

With my brush I paint a thousand flowers,

with my ear, I lean to the music of

each new greenly species under the oak

Time, rings in broad trunk, of living bower,

with its flax-grey thin scarves for my pale doves

to fly out, under little eaves they broke.

Emily Isaacson

Requiem of Juliet

He wears a mask, O swear I am a saint.

He, a pilgrim, and now his sin erased.

Stolen kiss, he would be absolved in faith,

and though unmoving, I would not be faint.

For at this grand feast hall of my parents,

there is no masked dance except noble dance

of Capulets and their guests, in one glance

I could assess their numerous talents.

I stand in a room no Montague would dare

enter, for this long-standing feud would not

end, stirs up dissention in Verona.

I dance, whirl, coming close enough to stare

at Paris—the one I blindly could not

marry.  I would rather have a love knot.

 

I am only thirteen, and though naïve,

I have kissed the one I love, now knowing

love eternally—in one boat rowing,

behind a pillar, mysterious, brave.

No offer, except that sin be removed

from my dull lips: I kiss you once again.

But who might you be in this vaulted space?

I, closing my eyes, that heaven be moved,

that I would not be anarchy-tainted,

but if only to know your name; my nurse

shall tell me what I ask, I now implore.

For I am but a nightingale, sainted,

winnowing the dark on the Holm oak’s purse,

its wealth, the wealth of Verona’s waxed floor.

 

Romeo in black mask, my enemy,

a Montague no less, nurse enunciates,

and yet our flame-held love hallucinates

from enmity to righteous purity.

This kind of reverence, throated passion,

has been my crime, for I am now outcast,

tiptoeing in the silence that you fast

without me, hunger-stricken in fashion.

Left in noxious blasphemy, I feel sea

on stone against religion’s enamelled

calling—its staid followers to renounce

idolatry: Romeo has seen me

and all his poignant affection channeled,

and yet this one love I could not announce.

 

That night, I stepped on the stone balcony;

the nightingales were chanting. Then the same

wept—I wished for him to renounce his name:

in one bold space, his voice commanded me—

“Juliet, it is I, your Romeo.”

And in his hand—a silver rose, his hair,

as if it acquiesced by moonlight’s air,

his hand, flailing for my aquiline nose.

I watched him in the garden under night:

I seethe lone, from stately Capulet’s house,

that I should be forced to marry Paris,

he with whom I have no blinded delight—

it is the darker Romeo I love,

it is the mysterious force of fate.

 

With chestnut mane tumbling down my shoulders,

and my white wool apron tucked away, get

the friar with myrtle in his basket

to marry us, while rejecting of verse,

as villains in crime, we would, in secret,

be wed. We would carry thorned-blood roses,

as briny ocean marries rock, lap shore,

and lily-youthful vows we’d not regret.

It was on his way home that my husband

encountered a street fight and battled kin,

and when his noble friend was stabbed to death,

my cousin’s blood red-flowed into the sand.

O majesty Verona, my cousin

was dear to me, my tears, twined laurel wreath.

 

Under a spray of juniper berries,

I am outlined against the star-crossed night,

while the Montagues and the Capulets fight

in the street as ardent adversaries.

Raising words as violent rapiers, swords

subtle; while only a youth, I perceive

that I may use a word swiftly, conceive

of a future to work deftly towards.

What is this lark singing sweetly I hear?

What song could bend with morning to entice?

To speak a word gives it meaning in jest;

could the fates be re-written by my care?

The quill beneath my hand was cool as ice

to mother: I would not marry Paris.

 

O sorrowful Verona, my husband

climbed a cloth ladder to my bedroom while

banished from you for murder: cousin’s bile

mixed with the dust of russet boot-shaped land.

We embraced until morn and when the last

nightingale sang, he fled over the ledge

of the balcony. We gave solemn pledge

to meet again, like statues in gold cast.

Morning I was to wed Paris, they found

me dead, as by the friar’s herbal aid

I did drink tincture. I feigned death, but stealth—

Romeo heard, and rushed to my sealed tomb.

There he drank an apothecary’s made

poison’s death; I awoke—then stabbed myself.

Emily Isaacson

  

All photos used by permission.

https://armstreet.com/

Requiem of Cinderella

In a coal corner of the kitchen bare,

Violet with blond locks sweeps the fireplace,

dusted with old wasp wings, she weeps, disgraced;

a Cinderella, broom beneath the stair.

She lives in the attic of this grand house,

sleeping on iron bed, banished above,

while once she was her father’s winging dove—

now attended to by a graying mouse.

While she scurries for her stepsisters sleeves,

her head in dreams, she sings the brightest note,

making mouse-errand trips to a moss knoll,

while she shines crystal fluting and believes

a prince she met in a field one day spoke,

inviting supple women to a ball.

 

Though her voice, remedy from beech and chaste,

grew Black Hambourg vine up the grey stone wall,

childhood whispering to her china doll,

a father’s princess of unbroken lace.

She as a maiden tethered the gold horse

in the pasture with the sun for rose lamp

setting overhead, she rode from her camp

of hundred-year-old mansion Le Gall Gorse,

where evil stepmother next made her home

with her two daughters, wild moor hills of France

subduing Violet ’cross Finistère

to scrub the mansion floors with castile soap.

Her face smudged with soot, Cinderella sang

a dirge to the clock’s ticking minister.

Wood violet, dear child grown to woman,

knelt, her wisps of rough long blond hair tied back,

nuanced modesty on wrought iron stand,

her purple nosegay resting to chasten

her to repetitive token paintbrush,

she imbued the long strokes, watercolour:

fiery centre, water-purple, flower

pot—on rippling landscape escaping lush.

Armorica peninsula, clean drawn,

a shuttered house close to the lashing sea

opened its arms then, a hundred-years-old—

with steady beech a shelter, tolerant

godmother of old, whose ideas—tea,

brewed black tannins in glass, wizened and cold.

 

She made a thousand stitches, quilt patterns

growing and dispensing with coming night,

unlike the tormented filtered daylight

streams, shafted through the ancient window, yearns

for child, rests on eight pointed star, quarter

square, patchwork, snowball, or four patch quilt block.

While she is only their servant, a knock:

a demanding order from stepmother.

Violet has garden robins for friends,

as sweet as she is enduring and kind,

she greets each red breast—named, welcomes them in

her apron, to perch on the porch, the depths,

shadows in the yard broken by wind chimes,

the long-forgotten music wears not thin. 

 

English violet on French soil, your feet

have travelled over the moors, like your eyes

adore cairns left as monuments, raised ties

to the past, remembrance in tumuli,

like a shrine of stones that weeps in colour

of the earthen Noires Mountains in the south,

towering over Muscadet’s rough cloth,

greenly with cut crystal’s wine-like savour.

Aroma of the sea’s sapidity,

you are salt-crashing to sand, cresting white,

it breathes from flecked clam shells in rocky coves

before formations, the ocean crafting

of millennia-wayfaring granite

in its own way, as a religion’s trove.

 

This fertile ground begat the Chardonnay

in your father’s cupboard, variety

of clusters on the vine, a toast lady-

like, delicate vineyard velvet-leaf’s day.

The violet, when overshadowed, hides

not far down the lane, under hedgerows, near

a row of mice, a pumpkin, makes the tears

of the scullery maid’s coal face, crying. 

She sings a low tune, calls out, then the day

of days, when in godmother-drafted dress,

meets the prince again at the castle ball.

She is a lavender-hued beauty stayed,

bedecked with crystal necklace at her crest

of throat, the clear gems in a dance with all.

 

Her dainty figure left her glass slipper,

after waltzing, just bent, a dance-flower

petal-purple under sunset’s power,

cream sash imbuing eyes of cornflower

amid elegant feet’s primal chaos

on the parquet floors, dancing in their blooms,

hooves and carriages en route to their tombs,

the prince, her shoe in hand, would find her lot

then, as purple emperor butterfly:

kneels to put it on her foot, then rises,

so the white bands and the orange-dot-hindwings,

blue-black then crease the air like quiet cries

of liberty. All around violets,

in glittering castle where her veil reigns.

Emily Isaacson

All photos used by permission.

https://armstreet.com/