A "Slant of light" I share on one
whose art would richly grow,
though fame had barely yet begun
'fore death would stem her flow.
Her childhood would impress the need
to read and not rebound.
Her brain would feel, she'd later plead,
a bird "lodged in the pound."
But when her soul could rise, be free,
she parlayed with that gift
and fashioned flights of fantasy
with riddles that would lift.
For birds and bees soared up on high -
their liberty she craved;
while grief and clergy heaved their sigh,
her spirit felt enslaved.
Her mind would probe to find what's true
with transcendental theme;
in white, she penned her artist's view
in verses quite supreme.
For in her world of pious reign
where nature offered hope,
she strove to find another plane
to give her mind more scope.
And though recluse for many years
'twas not for want of choice.
While outside held for her few fears,
her muse within had voice.
In solitude her words gave breath
to scenes that were surreal;
imagining herself in death
infused a mocking feel.
Through melancholy and belief,
in love there was but one
who sparked her verse with wild relief,
brought fire to poise undone.
And in her thoughts so dark, acute,
a question she was sane.
She wrote that, if you dare dispute,
you're "handled with a chain."
With prowess unacclaimed in life,
she voiced her words with might;
in verse and letters ever rife
that scarcely saw the light.
Yet granting strong and wilful self,
her work she chose to hide;
and kept that art like hidden pelf -
the reader to decide.
|