Ode to Joyce

Ode to Joyce, that ephemeral beauty,
those dark brown Galway eyes, unbeknownst to possess the incandescent flame of genius,

Oh, Lucia, muse without a voice, locked inside those walls made of your father's fame,
The light giveth to you in the wake of progress, Issy and Milly.

Trieste, Rome, Paris.

What made your bray (ing) madness set fire to your dour heart?
Fade in time, those cruel years prevailed, the heart's effervescence dulled by years of doctor's notes.

Caught between ageless beauty and a slow descent made of inpenetrable angst, veni vidi vici, ecco hommo, pomys petrachs, dancing in the wake of The Dead. Your father the most famous Dubliner of all time searching the continent for the good life and an escape from the shackles of Empire you made and born in an Italian port your Irish heart voice and Parisian accent oh, Lucia what ever became of you?

History, mystery, Oh, dearest Lucia, I call to you from beyond the grave! You were the possessor of such indestructible beauty and grace, your mind would not allow all that heaven allows.

And now time passes on, your father's reflecting genius doth grow,
you buried not in Zurich with your brother, father and mother but in some forgotten part of England,
Even Carl Jung did not know what you do with you, Samuel Beckett called you Syra-Cusa, Light of the world! Named, Unnamed, Mamied by your own thoughts and hysteria!

Constant motion, from here to there and nowhere! A true child of Europe waking from history and its own consciousness.

Lucia, it is true - you was a Work in Progress all those years and dreams,
float down in the Liffey, in summer and Bloom. Working class and middle class combined, nonetheless ageless beauty resides in those dark brown Galway eyes,
moment after moment define
it's as if