ManicDDaily

Mind Wave (For Virginia Woolf)

One bemoans but understands
the stones,

thinking of a mind that, like
a wave, washed crevices, even
those not known
to be inlets, seeping between grains
of sand, nuances
of dust; a fractal mind that
traced a perimeter so much bigger than
its area (a coastline infinite, if intricately
measured, no
matter the isle’s square miles)–

A beam-from-a-lighthouse mind that
in its illumination of
what was writ got all
the way to “q”–a quadratic of empathy–a mind
that could put itself in the shoes of
any person, beast, street, room–its floorboards
creaking–shaping the handle of a pen knife, the tug
upon a mustache or
heart, a woman’s carried bag, time, space and, finally,
ash, the blitz
of two generations.

One thinks
of the fatigue of
impersonation, the burden of voices
heard, articulated, not
drowned out–

A mind that got to “q” but not perhaps
to “r” as in relief or respite, that, sleepless, heedless, seething
as a wave, sought weights against such
weight–

one hates the stones–

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I wrote the above poem (and made the drawing) for a prompt made by Fireblossom to write about a famous person for the poetry blog Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.  Virginia Woolf, great lyrical writer of the twentieth century, and certainly one of my favorites, died by drowning herself, after filling her pockets with stones.