I AM QUASIMODO, THE BELLRINGER OF NOTRE DAME,
WHOSE FATED MYSTERY IS TO SUMMON THE MASSES
UPON THE APPOINTED HOURS OF THEIR FAITH.
A MISBEGOTTEN BIRTH HAS BROUGHT ME HERE,
ABANDONED, RECOVERED, (HIDDEN AWAY) IN MY AFFLICTION -
A DENIZEN OF HIGH PLACES, MADE DEAF BY LABOR AT THE BELLS;
A SUBTERRANEAN CREATURE
SNIFFING MY SURE WAY THRU THE BACK WAYS
AND FORGOTTEN STREETS OF A CITY AT NIGHT,
Notes (not mine) on the beginning of something, a narrative poem perhaps?
Found in a box recovered from storage, along with scanned photos from that time;
An interesting characterization worth preserving...
and possibly completing...? ...as a PoetrySoup cooperative project?
Questions one could comment or expand upon:
Are there aspects of Quasimodo in each of us?
I love the turn of phrase, "whose fated mystery is to summon the masses upon the appointed
hours of their faith."
I ponder my own fated mystery. What is yours?
How does it feel to be at the center (and the maker) of so much sound and not be able to
Do you 'hear' sound differently?
What are you deaf to? a call to faith? love?
How does Quasimodo's sense of isolation mirror your own?
The contrast of being a "denizen of high places", yet a "subterranean creature" roaming
forgotten 'streets' in the dark. What does that mean to you?