Usually, I do not like author’s notes, especially in books of poetry. I feel that they interrupt the flow of the book, and distract the reader from the poetry. However, in this case, I felt it necessary to include an explanation of the next poem, so I breached my establish style and here we are. It is not the only breach in relation to this poem. I hope this author’s note will serve as a warning and an explanation of the poem.
If You Do Not Read Anything Else On This Page, At Least Read This: Warning – The Next Poem Contains Content Which May Make Some Readers Extremely Uncomfortable.
First: The Explanation of the Change of Style
If you have read the first few poems in this book, you may have realised that none of them are written in first person. This is another style choice; I find that using first person frequently adds an element of self-conciousness which is distracting. But this poem had to be written in first person in order to convey the feelings which I hope to illustrate.
Second: The Explanation of the Content
*Note: The following section contains spoilers of the poem. If you wish, you may read the poem now and come back to this if you feel you require an explanation.*
This poem was not written because I condone the actions described and implied in the poem. They are simply the medium I use to convey the ideas and feelings behind the poem. It is not my desire to offend anyone in writing this poem, and although I realise that it contains content that readers may find disturbing, I stand by what I have written. It is, if I may say so, a good poem.
This poem is meant to be disturbing, and if I have succeeded, it will allow the reader to feel not only the feelings of the narrator, but the feelings of the subject as well.
Finally, I hope that the following quote will serve as a fitting conclusion to this author’s note:
“The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.” -Oscar Wilde
Out of the clearest glass I’ve made
A shining sphere in which I keep
The light of life inside the shade,
The tears of love which sad eyes weep.
And far the most important thing
I keep inside the shining sphere,
The one most worth desiring,
The centre piece of all kept here,
I keep inside a most fair maid,
A beauteous form as e’er I’ve seen.
The pieces of this world I’ve laid
Are all for her, for she is queen.
And this by far what I enjoy
Of what I’ve done is it’s a ruse.
She does not know she’s in my toy,
So all the easier to confuse.
She thinks she’s free to fall or rise,
To glide through air on bird’s strong wings,
She does not see the wings she flies
Are held aloft on puppet strings.
The mirrored ball in which she be
Keeps from her eyes the world outside,
And only what I wish she see
Is from her shielded vantage spied,
And from her pierced and fractured gaze,
Without the knowledge that I stole,
She gives herself to me with praise,
And, blindly, gives up all control.
So sometimes when she’s feeling high
And has the greatest joys of life,
I like to twist the mirrored lie
And introduce a world of strife.
And spinning in the crystal ball,
She laughs aloud in ecstasy.
As I watch, the dominoes fall;
I know she will soon scream for me.
She comes to me, sobs in my arms,
The crashing of the world now ceases,
She won’t resist my strong, firm charms,
For I alone pick up the pieces.
And when she sinks against my chest,
Amid shards of the globe I broke,
The heaving of her trembling breast,
The shattered sob of her throat’s choke
Are music to my ears, and though
She senses danger, which she’s in,
She does not have the power to go,
For secretly, she wants me to win.
I have her heart, I have her soul,
I have her mind to make my own,
And though she sees my heavy toll,
She cannot bear to be alone.
She cannot see them through the dark,
And though they’re calling out her name,
The strength and bindings of my mark
Make her tongue dumb and her legs lame.
And as her strength begins to fail,
And she falls, helpless, in my grasp
With hands that tremble, fingers pale,
Desperate, she finds my arm to clasp.
And all her will is bent to mine,
I penetrate her, like a knife,
Her power and my mind entwine,
‘Tis her belief that gives me life.
Struggling, she sinks in the abyss,
She fights to break free, but too late,
The last thoughts of lost consciousness
Give clarity to her dark fate.
“What have you done?” she fights to speak,
Eyes filled with fear and harsh reproach,
But lips are heavy, eyelids weak,
And blank thoughts on her mind encroach.
Then, with a strain, she reignites,
The fire in her eyes bright burns,
But just as quickly dim the lights;
The all consuming dark returns.
Now she lies limply in my arms.
I have her, body, mind and soul.
I make her life, I keep her charms,
For she will never have control.
For she is mine.