Update V of V: Change of Tone

Eternal, lasting creation.

As I piece together the final parts of my creation, I find — perhaps for the first time — my eyes looking heavenward, not at her, but at the heavens themselves looking back at me. I smile, looking at the crescent moon bright, wondering how many poets before I did look to her and wish.

I can almost hear When David Heard by Eric Whitacre awaken somewhere in the quiet.

My eyes relinquish their hold on the stars and return to my thoughts. I look around at the garden of works, words, and poems I have written, and the many other pieces not yet ready for publication. I step forward, entering the doors of my own mind, allowing myself to act as a guest, listening to the hum of words moving to write themselves on memories — memories begging to be seen — and my work, completed, sitting alone on a stone, lit only by the burning fire of my passion, each word and page ready to be opened and read.

I stand inside the metaphors I built with my own hands: a cathedral of poetry, raised from stone, spoken in celestial parchment that even heaven would recognize.

Angels would ask, How have you written so that we understand?

I would say, “I have met one — one of your own — and my eyes learned the words of her body, and now my mind can do nothing but speak so that angels feel my words.”

But there are no angels with me now. I open my book, my eyes read the works, but my ears recall the echoes that once spoke her name now speak mine first — recognizing not just this accomplishment, but all I have in store and yet to bring forth — and if I listen closely, they shape something enduring: my name, my doctrine, the foundation of something beautiful, pure, and lasting — something birthed from devotion to her; for myself, a created legacy — my pillar — my debut poetry book.

A pillar, and the first stone of every future work that will follow; a pillar created by me, but belonging to her.

She was the reason my poetry awakened — the moment my hand gripped the pen and pressed ink into meaning, intention behind every word, every phrase, every ellipsis, every pause.

Everything I’ve said before remains true, but the tone has changed.

She was the spark to my flame.

But I was the creator.

When I began writing, she was “a light falling from heaven, wrapped in black wings.”

And now, I am the author and creator of visions that others will only know her by, and hear in my voice.

I had to create a universe — stars, galaxies — to describe her to the world I live in.

To the reader: you will witness, as I offer this final invitation — an acknowledgment of the divine inspiration one woman gave to my pen — and if only her silence is to follow, then a pillar it will remain, standing alone, upon my exodus from this subject.

As I plan a few open mics and engagements over the Christmas season — in her city, and in the cities that shaped the genesis of these poems — I’m reminded of one truth:

Nothing is final except my resolution to leave this pillar standing amongst the stars for her — from this moment, until the end of time, and for all time.

Literary legacy, love of the divine, for the Divine, blessed under the celestial night.

Because if I am to be honest — and honest I will always be — then no matter my existence:

Purple Rose (will remain in time).

The stars (will always) carry her name.

And these letters (will always be) from me to her.

— Eternally,

🌹 James V The Poet 🖤✨