Elegy For Prospero By Isabella Fiske Mc Farlin

Original poem by beloved ©Ladybelle aka Isabella Fiske McFarlin 2025, Vermont USA
Written in May of 1990 after the death of her father, Irving Fiske, on 25 April 1990

Voice of ©Yvonne Hofstetter , Paarl , Cape Windelands , South Africa
Produced by Brian Hofstetter - Thank you beloved
Image From Pixabay

Transcript

Elegy for Prospero by Isabella Fiske-McFarlane,

Also known as Ladybelle.

She wrote this in May of 1990,

After the death of her beloved father,

Irving Fiske.

I speak here as Miranda,

She says,

Returning to the magic isle to see the place once more and to seek for the magic her father renounced,

Hoping to find in it a sign of him.

Elegy for Prospero Miranda The landscape is without its central figure.

No gleam of silver hair or laughter in the grove.

Gone is the wizard.

Singing birds move among the trees.

The sun is hot and rich,

But he is gone.

I land my yellow boat upon the shore and pull it in.

Fish splash in a reed and lily cluster around my bare feet in clear still water.

Climbing the sandy path,

I brush an ancient silvered stump which long ago served me for castle.

Acorn kings dwelt there.

They too have gone.

This lush and tropic afternoon,

A thousand-memoried scent emits from tiny budding figs which he will no longer taste.

The squirrels he shared them with now eat their happy fill.

The ivy vine he raised around his window curls,

Abundant and untroubled by his death.

Prospero,

You are gone.

Your absence permeates all.

This red clay road,

The stars,

The water,

Fold with your presence,

Fold with your absence.

Stark is the owl's cry.

There was lived here so vast,

So powerful a life,

That they who journeyed to our strange abode lingered enchanted and amazed.

Yea,

In this magic place a thousand spells were cast and all our dramas played.

Here miracles were wrought.

Here human and spirit did cavort.

But our revels now are ended.

Unto this magic island I now return in wonder.

Into the silence,

Into the singing of birds I inquire.

The sky is deepening,

Empty.

Prospero,

Whence does that magic go?

Now the conjurer has renounced it.

Has it gone hence with he who stirred the storms?

Pine forest and memory answer.

It yet awaits.

It is in you.

The whopper wall begins its evening incantation.

Thank you,

Dear Isabella.

Thank you,

Dear Irving.

Thank you,

Dear listener.

Until we meet again.

Reviews

Beautifully read. Beautifully felt. Thank you, dear, dear one. 💫✨💫

Most beloved Yvonne, thank you so much! What a terrific surprise When I arrived in our group, “Magical Circle of Friends,” to put up links to meditations tonight!
You have taken in, and so beautifully expressed, the essence of this poem. I hope it will help the listener/ reader to get a sense of my relationship with my unusual father, Irving Fiske—writer, playwright, inventor, speaker, philosopher, and Co-creator of Quarry Hill Creative Center, our home, which was ever-open to “the newcomer” (as Irving often said) in Vermont.
This poem takes place in our other home, Still Lake in the Ocala Forest in Florida. In this peaceful, semi-wild place, Irving most truly was himself, entertaining visitors and “orchestrating” human interaction, though not in an authoritarian way. He created a lot of laughter and joy here, for the most part through his appreciation of other people.
He often compared himself to Prospero, Shakespeare’s wizard, and me to Miranda ( her name means “wonder,”) Prospero’s daughter. We were solitary together for a while when I was a very young child and my mother left for six weeks, an uncertain time for all of us. At this time, Irving and I bonded in a special relationship with each other. In “The Tempest,” Shakespeare’s last play, Prospero, the Duke of Milan and his little daughter Miranda are set afloat on the ocean in a rickety boat by his enemies.. She is only three years old, a few months older than I was when my mother left & my father and I were alone together. Prospero attributes his emotional survival of the ocean to the smiles and playfulness of his little daughter. Then they reach the shore of the magic Island, and except for the spirits, are alone there together till Miranda is 15, just the age I was when I first met other young people, my age in New York City. Voyagers come to the magic isle and are swept up in a storm created by Prospero. Seeing their ship caught in “the tempest,” Miranda feels compassion for them. Prospero assures her it is not a real storm and the people in it are safe.
Then Ferdinand, a handsome young man who had been on the ship with his father ( Prospero’s brother and enemy) comes to their dwelling…and he and Miranda fall in love.
Our life in Florida was not dissimilar.
“The Tempest” was Irving’s favorite play by Shakespeare.
As. you know, I’m writing a book about my life with and without my family. My mother, Barbara, came back to Irving and me and had another child, my brother William. I hope I will be able to tell more of the tale in the memoir.
In this poem, I attempt to weave together
the legend of Miranda and Prospero and the real-life experience of myself and my father, and others. Irving was known to many as The Forest Wizard.
Dearest Yvonne, thank you, bless you, and love you always! Thanks to you, to your husband, Brian, and my appreciation to both of you.🩷💕🦜❤️i love you!
I’m very grateful to everyone for your lovely and appreciative reviews! 🙏🏻💕love you Yvonne ❤️🌙

Oh how lovely that was. You brought tears to my eyes. All of it, the sounds, the words, your voice, magical.
Thank you Yvonne for another magical touch.

This is one of my favorites. Looking forward to more. Thank you 🙏🏻 🌸🕉️

It was mysterious and magical- thank you both -Isabella and Yvonne, for creating this mystery of word and sound, and such a beautiful result of the memory of your father Irving, Isabella 🙏🏾💜☀️🍀🌌💕// Thank you dear Poetess Isabela for writing the background of this poem in the first comment on the track ⏬️⏬️⏬️🙏🏾🩷🤗🌸