Eurydice Tunes the Radio in the Rolls-Royce
It’s coming through like feedback
from the god-channel —
part poem, part engine-reverie.
The leather buzzes like an oracle,
headlights slicing open the veil.
Orpheus is leaking from the speaker,
moonlight’s caught in your rearview,
and the highway’s humming prophecy in 4/4 time.
You drive like you remember dying
while the music sings, “come back.”
No static. Just signal forward.
But if you’re ready —
yes, let’s turn the dial.
19 thoughts on "Eurydice Tunes the Radio in the Rolls-Royce"
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This is fabulous. I’m a sucker for mythology woven into poetry but this is just beautifully written and formed. “the highway’s humming prophecy in 4/4 time” – perfect.
many thanks
Beautiful. Love the allusions and that final stanza. Thanks for sharing it.
thank you 🙏
I love the poem and your casual approach to Eurydice. As usual, fine with precision.
Whoops, “done” with precision.
thank you
Delicious, my dear Ms. Virelai! You have been a revelation this month, springing fully formed from the head of Zeus. Please, please come back next year. And in the meantime, should we get some coffee and talk shop (or at least poetry)?
thanks — I would love to.
“…from the god- channel…”
Perhaps a new show on WRFL?
A fantastic poem in many ways!
📻🤩🙏
Especially delighted to see this title, since I am fresh from seeing Sarah Ruhl’s Eurydice.
Another poem from your very own “god- channel”!
Love: But if you’re ready —
yes, let’s turn the dial.
that’s awesome, and thanks
I have LOVED every one of your pieces this month! Truly wishing I could read more of your work! (Any ways one can do that? 😉
You have finished with another stunner. Especially love:
‘You drive like you remember dying
while the music sings, “come back.”’
That is extraordinarily kind of you to say and humbling for me to hear. I’ve not published any poetry other than this batch on LexPoMo, but thank you for the encouragement and for sharing your voice this month. 🙌
glitch poem post-track
“after form”
You asked how art moves.
It doesn’t — it haunts.
It rides the breath, the blood, the gift.
It sleeps in seedbanks,
lurks in looms,
hums through copper wire.
It moves when we do,
and even when we don’t,
it moves us.
The word for poem was carmen —
a chant, a spell, a name for song.
What else is worth surviving?
Do you need a snack? a nap?
Or shall I sit with you, breathing,
reading silently to the dead,
until we make the air alive again?
I’ve enjoyed reading your poems this month! Happy LexPoMo!
May the lexpomo be with you til 26
ghost track 2
from the lexicon of lost girls
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ari elvia once wrote a sestina so precise,
it caused insomnia in three states.
she left a calling card made of asters
and the faint smell of ozone.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁