Elizabeth Barrette (ysabetwordsmith) wrote,
Elizabeth Barrette
ysabetwordsmith
  • Mood: busy

Poem: "Watermarks"

I wrote this poem back in 2004, inspired by the writing of M.C.A. Hogarth in "The Flight of the Godkin Griffin." Now that the story of godkin is winding down, it seems fitting to post here.


Watermarks
– a poem of Glendallia


She stands in the market square,
Polished marble shining in the sun
That flashes on the fountain’s pool
Beneath her pedestal.

I carved her myself –
The Mistress Commander at war,
Her wings spread like a white clap of thunder,
Her face like a spear, and all the ivory knives
Of talons on her hands and feet.

I was there, the day she broke our army’s back,
Diving out of the sun to subdue us.
I was there, and I remember
The terrible glory of the Godkin Griffin.

Now she stands where I set her,
Unmoving and unmoved,
Amidst the market’s murmur. “Life,”
They say, “goes on.”

She came to see it once,
Her statue in my fountain with its
Soft implacable patter of water.
“Melodramatic,” she said, and wandered off
To finish her shopping.
I do not think she saw me
Watching from the shadows,
Nor saw herself through my eyes.

She should have come later in the day.

At dusk, the last rays of light
Streak across the cobblestones
And kiss with crimson the thin trickle
That flows down the blade of her sword,
Turning the water to blood.

I can recall the exact color of it,
Decades later, the claret
Of its first freshness spilling over steel
Like wine from a broken bottle.
I saw what I saw. I was there.

My finger traces a slow circuit
Inside the fountain’s rim where
White crystals form a faint crust
On the rock wall, marking
The highest level of the pool
Around the monument.
The dust on my skin
Reminds me of her making.

What solace did I seek in sculpting this?
Did I hope to place some part of her in my power,
Or relish the shatter and smack
Of my hammer against mute marble?
If only I could turn memory to stone,
Drop it down a well and be done with it.

The children of today
Don’t care about yesterday’s tears.
They see a hero
Where I sit until the setting sun
Paints truth on the canvas I have carved.
They are, after all, only children.
Let them laugh and play
And splash through the pool to climb
On her slippery shoulders.

But I remember.
I was there.
Tags: cyberfunded creativity, fantasy, networking, poem, poetry, reading, writing
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  • 6 comments
a_r_williams

a_r_williams

June 5 2009, 09:02:04 UTC 12 years ago

Nice! Very Nice.
ysabetwordsmith

Thank you!

ysabetwordsmith

June 5 2009, 16:30:25 UTC 12 years ago

I'm glad you liked this.

Also, I visited your blog and it looks interesting. I have added you to my Friends list accordingly.
browngirl

browngirl

June 5 2009, 15:00:29 UTC 12 years ago

You went to another reality and transcribed this!
ysabetwordsmith

Yes!

ysabetwordsmith

June 5 2009, 16:27:53 UTC 12 years ago

I do that frequently in my writing. haikujaguar was gracious enough to open the gates, so I went for a mosey and found this. There's an earlier scene in the godkin story describing Angharad's visit to Glendallia and the fountain.
the_vulture

the_vulture

June 5 2009, 19:18:30 UTC 12 years ago

"Her wings spread like a white clap of thunder,"

I absolutely LOVE this line! Great simile!

I also like the idea of the sunset painting blood on a war statue. Great juxtaposition of symbols!
ysabetwordsmith

Thank you!

ysabetwordsmith

June 5 2009, 20:32:43 UTC 12 years ago

People have often cited imagery as one of the strong points in my writing.

I'm also fascinated by light and lighting, how they can change and thereby affect what they flow over. I've seen fountains where the water seemed like silver or gold, or where it was dark and mysterious -- and I've seen the effect of sunset-light on water too. So that's real, or can be.