When I remake this city
He shall be at its heart
As the pillars that I crumble
Frame him in vain art
As the cornerstones groan
Beneath my every step
As the temples are leveled
But their filigree kept
The canals will run straight
When I move my hand
The statues will shatter
And the libraries stand
When I remake this city
It will gleam sharp and white
And he will be buried
In marble, deep inside.
© 2012 Elizabeth Cook
Unfair charm and rakish hat
Their powers known too well
Offering jocund morsels that
Would mirth and heart soft swell
A dashing turn, a float of cape
Brazen in the London night
Beckoning on to such a place
That sobriety blushing slights Continue reading “Night on the Town”
Were it but drawn on a canvas of dunes
Our celestial guides would spin and vault
In route’s alteration, their hazard to choose
The improvisation of man in seeing through
His miles over earth, miles over salt Continue reading “North of Direction”
The whole world is in this room, and pieces of the universe too. A sample of this, a section of that, all compressed and made manageable for eyes that see in the third dimension. Or the fourth, depending on your reasoning. I have at my fingertips a collage of continents and centuries. Life in its many guises runs through the collection that I call past, present, and future; although life is one of Earth’s younger inventions it crowds the room with colour.
When I speak of life I gloss over the first prehistoric cells and think of the complex and the beautiful instead. Plants of a hundred different climes are here. With roots in the floor and stems above baseboard-level there are lotus flowers, Venus flytraps, a baobab tree. Carboniferous ferns and cacti rub shoulders with deadly nightshade.
Just above the greenery the moving creatures make their appearance. Continue reading “Everything in One Room”
This is an exerpt from a larger story. © 2012, Elizabeth Cook
At the times when I forget to come to a meal, to answer the telephone, or to clean up the clutter that is my office, my wife often calls me a useless nostalgic, a helpless romantic for the histories! In her heated voice these are insults, but to my ear, the truth was never so simple nor so pleasant. I reside within a construction of antiquated facts, dates, and recordings, all lifted up from the pages of history. A happy existence, from which the mist of the old, old past rarely clears, is my perfect study.
When those mists do clear, in the figurative sense I must blink and adjust to the present, whose flat sounds and uninteresting aspect does discourage me frequently. My wife’s hustle and bustle, her complaints and her frustrations, come from an immeasurable distance. There are no kings or mighty dynasties, no heroic battles or fascinating exploits. Plato, Augustus Caesar, Genghis Khan, Continue reading “Memoirs of a Historian”
© 2012, Elizabeth Cook
He sings the story of the world, the verses of the age. His words begin with the beginning; when the giants built their great road, when the dwarves carved Dorrundelve from stubborn rock, when the Wyr of the elves spread its branches from coast to coast, when the half-beasts were born.
He tells of the centuries passing.
He sighs over the giants’ wars, the fierce clash of great beings bringing about their own demise. He marvels as the dwarves uncover their greatest treasure, the cold fire of the stars caught in stone, which will gleam for all eternity. He witnesses the sailing of the Elitheriel, the elven ship sent across the Brightling Waters in search of isles out of myth. He reaches a ghostly hand out to Lanaeia, daughter of the sunset, who watched her love fade over the waves, and who watched the sea until she died. Continue reading “The Song Story of Greater Halendon”