This is poem two for National Poetry Month. A friend wrote a poem following the prompt to write a poem about a book the writer has not read for a long time. She wrote about The Scarlet Letter. My poem is about the book, An Imaginary Life.
The Roman Emperor Augustus saw Ovid’s poetry as subversive,
a power threat. He exiled Ovid to a remote corner of the Empire,
somewhere over by the Black Sea, the Carpathian Mountains,
among the destitute, the superstitious, people who did even know
how to read or write. They believed in witches, feared ghosts, saw
evil in everything and everyone different. Different equaled
death.
Paid to host Ovid, the village leader teaches him to ride horses
bareback, hunt, become stronger. Ovid transforms from a weak
revolutionary who hates this place to one who sees the barren
beauty, wanders in the forests, plants a wildflower garden,
survives.
While hunting, they see barefoot tracks in snow, tracks
of a feral child, a boy. Ovid fears for him, finds him,
rescues him. An accident occurs. The villagers blame
the boy, want to kill him. He and Ovid escape,
wander far into the northern wilds, into
infinity.
writingontherim 