| Abstract: | I have been visited by Eurydice. She first came to me, unbidden, unexpected, in the way things usually first come to me–in a poem. But there was something different about how this poem happened. On one of my Fridays devoted to writing, I was suddenly hijacked by Eurydice's point of view, her voice, her demand that I speak for her. She was shrill. She was insistent. She gave me no choice but to work on the poem till I had gotten it how she wanted it. She feels she has been much neglected and misunderstood, and she let me know a poem was not enough. It was just the beginning. She wants prose. She wants essays. She wants public presentations. She wants me to tell her version of the story. |
