Archive
04/22/09 - (3)
Breadcrumbs
Until questioning Google and Wikipedia, today, I guess I never really knew the meaning of "roman à clef" — "A novel with a key," literally translated from the French —
Never, indeed, realized that what I've been writing, all my life, Is just a thinly disguised soul-bearing autobiography Parading as fictitious narrative poetry,
A colossal excuse to excuse my psyche from telling the truth, And I've done so in such an elusive manner As to fool myself into believing I was leaving no traces behind,
That my poems really weren't Hansel-and-Gretel breadcrumbs Scattered along my path disappearing deeper and deeper, day by day, Into the forest of my life's perilous journey
To the heart of the witch's gingerbread-and-candy house, Where her furnace's maw awaited my tender flesh, When, indeed, they, the poems, were just that —
Crumbs dropped by a humble, well-meaning, naive artist, Who believed that composing truth into markers, along the way, Would, in time of dire need, lead him back out of the forest,
Let him reconnect with his sister, Gretel (Herself a roman à clef poetess, who's pseudonym was Sylvia), Just in time to pull her head out of the witch's Topf & Sons oven.
Only, today, I've come to understood a truth within the truth: The poems, the crumbs, were eaten by Gestapo crows, long ago, And my sister and I died in that barbed-wire forest.
04/22/09 - (3)
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