"We are such stuff
as dreams are made on; and our little life
is rounded with a sleep"
Sirs, I am vexed
I cannot write, they come to me only in dreams
whispering the perfect phrase, the stone
that will lock all others into place.
It is so clear, in my dream.
Each morning, I race to scribble
my newest truth and wonder why,
quill to paper, I find it hardened,
malformed in the waking light-
a mooncalf, yes.
They say the faerie folk give to mortals gold
that, the next day, turns in its pouch
to yellow leaves or a lump of coal...
a lump in the throat and a pain behind the eyes, in my case.
It crouches, waiting to spread itself out
weblike along the inside of my skull.
All day I mutter to myself
and down pint after pint to drown
the taste of the sea so heavy in my mouth.
My wife thinks me mad; my daughter plays the whore.
And the faeries have come
they have stolen my play and left a deformed changeling
to mewl and dribble witless after me.
I do not remember writing these words
scrawled
(doubtless during waking rambles)
in the margin of the Psalms.
I hid my name in a Psalm once, translating
my foolish impulses into holy scripture.
Now I pay with every dream syllable
lost in morning haze I writhe
under God's accusing finger,
His voice in my head, booming
Insolent noisemaker
blasphemous, ungrateful dog.
He knows all too well my passion
is for my stories and not for Him.
Furious, He knows where my creations come from
and now He is toying with me.
I sit, awake, in the silent kitchen.
As the darkness swallows me,
I listen for familiar voices
whispering in the night, spirits of the air-
but the air is empty, dead.
I clench my teeth, fighting the urge
to cry out, to curse God
to damn the faeries and their fools gold.
But, instead I let my forehead rest
against the wood of the table as
I feel the cold making a knot in my stomach:
Last night I slept but did not dream
And I know they have gone for good this time.
I will write the epilogue in supplicant prayer.
Prospero may be noble, but I am groveling for my audience
Toss your coppers, pretty ladies!
Let me see the reflection of the yellow petals
falling in your grey eyes as they meet mine
knowing, as I do, the ending,
regardless of the story, is nothing more
than emptiness and brittle leaves.