Invisible Nightingale

          
          

Keats has nothing on this garden
                    darkling.
My once bright eyes now blind—
        in flame from a tinder
                    spill of kindling.
Unseeing of his savior the Nightingale
object of his forlorn and pleading mind
my heart remains deflated and frail
empty of the song
                    through leaves, I cannot find.
          
          

He managed envy of the dryad’s happy lot.
At least he could envision happiness
        whereas I cannot.
Resigned to tumble and fail
in my deafened songlessness
searching for his
        immortal
                    Nightingale.
          
          

In this drowsy orchard dark
I await the sun in vain
to reveal its noonday arc
and shake from
        my heart
this fruitless stain
that has left its
                    binding mark.
        
        

_______
(c) 2013

Published by Marie Marchand

Poetry for me has always been a seeking. Always. An effort to come closer to beauty, to explicate beauty, to behold it in words. I wish to formalize beauty, to give it a title and empower it to go forth into the world. I want to give it shape and lend it the capacity for remembrance. Poetry captures essence. Without essence, there is nothing worth saving. John Keats and William Wordsworth are my favorite poets. My absolute favorite poem to read aloud is Wordsworth's Lines, otherwise referred to as Tintern Abbey. And it must be read aloud at least annually for uplift of the soul. I have shared my poetry through various means including handmade chapbooks, readings, and publication. All the poetry posted on this site is written and copyrighted by me. This collection represents about half of my poetry.