A POET’S LETTER TO JANE AUSTEN
By Cindy L Spear
Even though
I grew up with your stories—
I never knew,
Or remembered the fact,
That you died
On my elder brother’s birthday.
Today, reading a memoir of you
Written by your nephew,
I am struck by the similarities
Of your heart and mine.
We share common interests,
Health issues
And a total devotion to love.
I had no sisters to confide in—
But like you, had brothers
Who proved protective and kind—
To read your naked words on the page
And know the pain
You endured—
Fills me with sadness—
For I can imagine
Every choked emotion,
Every disappointment,
Every tear you shed and carried.
Dear Jane,
Like my great, great aunt
By the same first name
Who left Ireland—
Two years after your death
And moved to Canada—
Then died on St Valentine’s day—
Her life was cut short at forty-three,
And yours at forty-one.
What is it about that name, Jane?
Too many young mortalities I know.
You loved the sea, the Cobh, no less—
So, living inland for you
Meant an inspiration famine.
You starved for the sound of the waves,
To feel them crash over your pale white skin
To soak your wilted heart and soul in its depths.
More than anything, I can understand
How your first love suffered—
For no writing could happen
Hanging on the cliff of despair.
I was the same for many years—
But I had to learn to grow in my desert—
For when circumstances change
And they do—
If we cannot morph, we die,
Just a little more slowly for sure—
But we die.
Maybe I have more strength than you had
Maybe less bound by the ideals of your time
And more freedom to choose my own path.
One thing we both learned
Is that the heart
Can lead us into temptation—
At any time or anywhere;
Even one gentle persuasion
Can haunt us later in life
If resentment sets in.
Which is why
The golden rule of forgiveness
Is paramount to true freedom.
And your passion for the craft?
Writing was your baby—
Your true love in the end.
I can understand that so well.
The Muse is a jealous lover
That wants total devotion
To satisfy and protect its growth.
We share so much, dear fragile Jane,
Though worlds and years apart—
I am fastened to the same cause—
To write, create and claw
My way back up the mountain—
Whenever I trip or fall—
Just as you did.
I pick up one of your books
And hear your timeless whispers
Fluttering on the wind
Pulling me closer
To the sound of your heart beat—
That crazy passion for creative joy.
And I can hear again
The call of the wild—
The lonely and hidden.
I must be that voice, too,
That seeps out of the earth
Seeking to be heard—
To feel the mud between my toes
And the warm sun soaking
My parched white skin---
Releasing the inner muse
To shine, dance and dine with angels—
To slip into that other realm
Where feasts and fires
Ignite the soul—
While ignoring all other voices
That seek to take me away
From the genius you adored—
And the one I’ve come to know—
The Divine Furor—
The flame of our hope and skies.
