Today, I read some reviews of my poetry and revised one, too. I came across one poem I would like to share here because it is so wonderful and full of insight into another character invented in someone else’s writing.
This poem is by Doodley,
If every journey has an ending,
And every story has a start,
Would thy thoughts remain unbending,
That the Tin Man once had a heart?
That he lived a life of leisure,
In the forests of Oz forevermore,
Where the chipmunks frolicked in pleasure,
Upon evergreen seas of wood lawn floor.
Where the canopies teemed with birdsong,
And cicadas serenaded the night,
And the Lunar Queen on velvet throne,
Bathed the land in pearly light.
Tangerine beams of Sun’s contentment,
Polished his soul to silver sheen,
And the mist of disenchantment,
In his life, was nowhere to be seen.
And he reveled in joyous solitude,
In his home deep in the woods,
Where his apple orchard gave gratitude,
With unending ripened goods.
Then one glorious tranquil morn,
In the depths of florescent Spring,
Was his covert nurturing faith reborn,
When he heard the voice of an Angel sing.
For there beneath an apple tree,
Stood an emblem of Love divine,
Such a beauteous Nymph as there could be
Caressing the fruits upon its vine.
With cascading falls of golden locks,
And eyes a misterium of onyx hue,
She sang and whirled to emerging flocks,
That flew down to rest from the azure blue.
In the silent whoosh of Cupid’s rush,
There amidst the scores of Turtle Dove,
Their gaze did meet through crimson blush,
And they fell to depths of torrid Love.
And there amongst the swelling throng,
They twirled together entwined as one,
As Nature’s bards took up the song,
And the Lunar Queen embraced her Sun.
As daylight wilted to twilight gloam,
And starlight shyly twinkled through,
He guided her to his simple home,
Where Life and Love was born anew.
Through the fertility of the Springtime,
And all through the Summer’s swell,
Did their heart’s converse in Love’s rhyme,
In wondrous bliss did they both dwell.
But when Old Man Autumn in rustic fawn,
Encroached the serenity of this place,
Had the creeping tendrils of restless dawn,
Shone ill light upon their Love’s solace.
For the Wood Nymph had ambition,
She was no patient Eremite,
And she rebelled in true sedition,
Lured by the Emerald City’s bright.
One night under veiled star-fall,
While in dreaming did the Tin Man lay,
Did the Wood Nymph pack her belongings all,
And stole his radiant heart away.
And when he awoke to sunlight stream,
That shimmered his glossy face,
His world collapsed to nightmare dream,
She had disappeared without a trace.
He trawled through the woods in panic,
Let loose cries and desperate pleas,
That reverberated fleetingly manic,
On the gossiping Autumn breeze.
When his calls echoed in silence,
And stirred no sleeping ghost,
He lapsed into despairing violence,
For loss of things he loved the most.
He wailed in tormented grieving,
Like a baying Hound of Hell,
And struck his chest a-heaving,
His now heartless empty shell.
Then his trusty axe he took to hand,
And Cut! And Chopped! And Sliced!,
Decimating his orchard from the land,
In a whirlwind of rage and vice!
When his madness had abated,
He stood alone under gleaming sky,
As sorrow’s waves invaded,
On the breath of his longing sigh.
With his soul now torn asunder,
And with his hope ground into dust,
He hearkened to the distant thunder,
Then cried himself to rust.
All the forest joined to mourn him,
Shed their leaves in solemn prayer,
As the Solar King dialed down to dim,
In respect for the Life lost there.
And the passing days did wither,
Under first frost of Winter’s kiss,
Delayed by the Ice Queen’s dither,
In her fear of discourteous remiss.
And the Tin Man remained there frozen,
Through all time and Love’s decay,
‘Till a young girl and Scarecrow chosen,
Walked the Yellow Brick Road his way.
I admired his creative vision of this character inside his words…I also thought about his review about one of my poems, and how he seemed to want more information on my character in my poem because she was the POV inside it.
Therefore, I revisited it. I decided I must revise it and make it more complete in structure and thoughts.
Here it is after being revised:
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Daydreaming and thinking about the time and space of the past…
Gazing out at the faraway islands,
She imagines the handsome faces
The British killed,
Buried here, leaving behind young widows,
To assess the ocean alone.
Her eye on one point on the horizon
As she thinks about reckless pirates
going to the Indies
Or Charles Town.
Her mind on
The sandy shoals between Beaufort,
And the Atlantic waters,
She once visited a place on Bogue Island,
That had a decaying fort,
And an inlet where old ships came to visit
They were rumored to be the protection
Against Indian bandits,
The army camping there never completed
The southern walls,
Musket balls could be
lingering in the dirt,
Along with buried wreckage,
Summer is ending,
And she often thinks about the dead
As her garden dies,
What haunts this land
are the lingering ghosts
Of those men and boys that left Beaufort,
Promising letters to their waiting ladies,
All they became were moving targets
for the British invasion
As their muskets fired,
Local uniforms were covered in crimson stains,
Dark holes and charred souls linger
In old passageways,
Their ladies long dead,
After sleepless nights thinking
Deeply about their lost kisses.
She doesn’t like loving these trapped
As she stands at her open door
Watching the glint of the rising moon
On her moving sea in front of her.
She would rather think of a tranquil location
In sunny Beaufort,
Where a meadow is filled with grazing cows
Pecan trees. Green apples are brought to them,
As a bluebird
Moves from branch to branch
Above the herd,
And the pecans fall and fill the open air.
Now she sits on her porch swing,
Thinking of a studious painter, she loves
Living in New Bern,
Where he works on detailed miniatures and his
Art will be moved weekly
and arrive in distant places,
She longs to pose for him again soon.
Her knees draw up,
And she twists her hair slowly
Thinking about him and his socked feet
Smiling at her as he hands over
A little painting of her.
Her secret treasure, in an ivory frame
And the size of a thumbnail
Her having a picnic with him,
Born from a hastily drawn sketch in ink,
Now, vibrant in flowing oils,
She leaves 1782 behind with a fleeting
Thought about a lost letter
She discovered yesterday morning
While cleaning the crowded attic,
She Imagined the smell of it,
As her eyes read,
About somewhere inland,
And a Sunday camp filled with pain
Over lost cousins,
And a sweetheart missed with
The miles of unknown
Pressing into her mind
A whistle of a Cherokee arrow
Breaking the silence
Of the frontier there inside
Would the island slaves solve anything
With the Lord’s prayer?
The gilded-edge scene is buried
In her thoughts
As she watches their sun disappear
Leaving the colors of her fall behind to
Hide in the shadows of the casting
Boughs among the flowing hills
Beyond the seas and distant shores.–J.E. Cook ©2017