Yesterday, I read part of my novel ‘Bonds With Angels’ at my writing group in Springfield. After listening to the memoirs of six women, I recalled my offer to Belle in regards to my autobiography about my late sister and I.
“I need a woman’s point of view.”
Last night I considered writing – as my sister – from her point of view. How does Christine see her art? That would be complex. Would I lose my identity in the process – more than I have already? Will I meet her – my co-authoress? This morning she came to me – and her husband – who wrote a Spiritual drama that was performed in Carmel. The photo above was captured there.
The day of Christine Rosamond Benton’s funeral, I found my grandfather’s poem in a box of family photos. I showed it to my mother and told her I was going to read it at the service. She got upset, and told me it would be highly inappropriate. I was going to protest, but, I and my friend were conducting a investigation. This was more evidence the FIX was on. I was being side-lined, kept out of the limelight.
The woman wearing a veil, is an artist and a sculptress. She attended Joaquin Miller’s funeral. She lived in the Hights for seven years in a little shack. My kindred may have met her, or, seen her coming down from te Oakland Hills to ride the trolley. She is my spirit guide. She will take me home.
by Royal Rosamond
The tide was low today, my love
A cadence of the sea was wrought
In melancholy strain, and low and fraught
With whisperings of your name above
The deep sea song!
A shell that lured along the shore
Whispered; “I love you evermore!”
I wrote your name upon the sands –
Would that I traced with gentle hands –
The minor chords were wont to spell
The tide is high tonight, my dear.
The rock-bound shore loves the wave
But sends it dying to its grave.
The low bass notes vie with the fear
The wind send on
The all-encircling gloom
Descended o’er old ocean’s tomb!
Your name is gone tonight, my love:
The angry surge rushed in above.
It cries aloud, with sea gull’s shrill
“I love you still!”
Thou my figure, — dimmed shadowy ruined castle! Within thy ghostly vault incalculable echo of death Howling as monstrous sea; Without, the castle shadows float in dragonish mists: Eternal tempest of longing ocean roaring. But what a sweet, wild sight! I look there, there! Nameless, deathless, beauteous flower clinging To wounded breast of thy soul-ruined castle. Where floating the bravest battle-shadow Of thy past life now? Even though thy strong castle-hold funerals Into the unknown silent domain by the eternal hand of time Yet, ah, here! here! thou, my nameless flower, Remain like everlasting reluctant dream! Ah, my figure, -- shadowy castle, melts into thee, Thou everlasting memorial flower!
Reblogged this on Rosamond Press and commented:
Joaquin Miller wrote the history of Montana where three generations of the Rose-Rosamond family are buried. https://rosamondpress.com/2016/05/16/joaquin-and-leonie/