(a poem on the necessity to practice voice)
"Such love as the high gods know
From whose eyes none can hide,
May that never be mine,
To war with a god-lover is not war,
It is despair."
Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound
I watched you
grow full of suspicions
making guesses weigh more
get too large
A forest of tall-grown ghosts
whispering their stories.
Lost in the trees
Daphne, too, is not what she seems.
The birds that nest on her branches
never suspect that she
bark-covered
refused the love of a god
becoming virgin laurel.
You said
I sing you know
Oh, I know you sing
like a bird, I bet
but not for me
not to me
Then you walked away
toward the trees,
sprouting leaves.
David Swoyer
Contents | Mudlark No. 1
Hardly To A Sheba | For a
Friend
Having His Tattoo Removed