Writing Theft

I stole, at the dining room table while waiting to go off to opera (the fourth and final of my kids' performances in Suor Angelica). Outside, the day was grey. It put me in a poetic mood.



I stole the moment, as Cameron suggested a writer should, and I let myself dream a monster's life.

But first I remembered an odd theory, developed after a murder case was solved by a heart-transplant patient's "memories." She remembered because, they suspect, the brain is not the only seat of memory in the body. She remembered what happened in the life of someone else— her donor.

This led me to Frankenstein, Shelley's monster man, made from the parts of various people. What memories might lie in his heart, or toe, his tongue? What life— not his — did these memories come from? And what desires might they urge?

I daydreamed my answers into a form-poem called a pantoum, which I will share. But that is not all I stole.



I stole in the kitchen.



I stole at the opera dressing-room counter.



I took my words, stolen by degrees, and folded memories, love, hope, into five notes to friends (also Cameron's suggestion).



Who knew that writing-theft could be so heartening? It was.


Frankenstein

He stitched me limb by limb,
from pieces he gathered at graves
fresh dug. By candlelight dim
he sorted my heart, hips that once craved.

From pieces he gathered at graves,
I grew by night—calloused toes, amber eyes.
He sorted my heart, hips that once craved,
imprisoned the voice of a man who lied.

I grew by night—calloused toes, amber eyes,
searching for child I'd lost in the Rhine.
He imprisoned the voice of a man who lied
to keep his love from shearing the line.

Searching for child I'd lost in the Rhine,
I welcomed his breath to revive my tongue,
to keep my love from shearing the line,
and speak again of lilies undone.

I welcomed his breath to revive my tongue,
taste her love on a moonless night
and speak again of lilies undone—
their fragrance mocks my soulless plight,

as I wander a world whose fear near looms,
fresh dug by candlelight dim,
while lilies fade in empty rooms,
he stitched me limb by limb.


Suor Angelica photos and photos of cards by one of my favorite card makers, Elizabeth O. Weller, by L.L. Barkat.

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You Can Get Away With Anything, So Long as You Sing It

I couldn't resist posting this, smack in the middle of a serious discussion of The Gift. Even if you know nothing about opera, this lady'll make you laugh. Laughter is a special kind of gift, don't you think?







Anna Russell, on Ring of the Nibelungs.