Holly grinned, hugging Chiara from behind.

“What do you think?”

Sheet music was a language all on its own.

Jay’s eyes followed the gentle progression of musical notes with effortless ease, his fingers obeying their command across the glossy piano keys. The music emanating from it filled the entirety of the Globe’s new theater. They had had one before, but hardly this grand. Jay had been insistent that it be on par with the theaters that once housed the greatest performances of all time. It did not disappoint, and the music from the immaculate white piano inaugurated it with all ceremony.

I’ll pretend that she likes poetry
So that my lines will flow with ease,
And find no dam in knowing she
Is yawning — not intrigued or pleased.

I’ll pretend she cares for rhythmic feet
That each should ring euphonious —
About each line’s fluidic beat
That each should sound harmonious,

Then when a wind shall come to blow
The candle of my genius out,
Or trip me up and lay me low
And mire me in the ditch of doubt,

Either way my jealous envy
Rears it’s ugly head,
If you work at things I’m good at,
Or other things instead.

Fears that you’ll surpass, replace me,
Take away my relevance,
Come when you pursue my skill-fields,
Learn my learning’s eloquence.

As Vivian entrapped Merlin
Fast inside a tree
When the witch had learned his wisdom —
So you’ll do to me!

BUT

If you show no interest,
In the skills of which I boast,
Turn yawning and indifferent,
From things I love the most,

Climbing the horizon above the hills
Golden light shining on the streets,
I rise at dawn to do the king’s will
At his throne Grima also I’ll meet

Helpless to act, I watch him listen
The wicked advice of that serpent
“This creature” I vainly tell him
“Speaks evil without ceasing”

My words soon unheeded
My face grave without expression
I flee to my chamber to my bed
Dropping to my knees in sorrow

When that my body lies all rotten
That my life’s flame be not forgotten,
Erect a box above my grave,
And scraps I wrote on therein save.

Then one like me, who comes to pass
Across the graveyard’s soft green grass,
Who idly meditates the stones
Of scores, beyond their names unknown,
Will come to where my body’s buried
And find my little life’s library,

One little cry and a baby is born;
Dark, shiny lashes frame blue infant eyes.

One little hand grasps his brown, leather finger;
Little One captures her old daddy’s heart.

One little word and she’s already talking;
“Mama” and “Dada” she laughs all day long.

One little step and a great heavy fall;
But she’s up again, running to chirp “daddy’s home!”

One little song and she’s crowing a melody;
Warbly, off key, but joyful the same.

One little question unfastens the door;
And Mama’s all-knowing, so fire away!

No hyperbolic poet could express
How wet and muddy this country is.
Endless drips from big leaf maple trees,
(Branches in lichen, bare of leaves)
Fill the puddle-ditch beside the way
Slippery with smashed-down maple-leaf clay.

Bury your hand in the tree-trunk’s moss,
As you slide with the ground— mud over your socks —
On the path to the creek where the Alders lay
Themselves as bridges, soon washed away —
It’s never the same from day to day.

English —
Wonderful storehouse
Panoply of meaning,
Arsenal unsearchable
Of vehement expression.

Come, let me search the ancient books and scrolls
And find the perfect words, perfect actors for their rôles,

Push back the heavy two-leaved doors,
And pass the pillars of fire,
Search the thousand-thousand stores
A thousand years acquired.

Brother —
How shall I name you?
What words well-forged
Will bear the weight
Of what you are, what word?

Chapter 8 Relentless