Blackout Poem (Original - excerpt from Ovid's Metamorphosis)

her head becomes the summit of the tree;

all that remains of her is a warm glow.

Loving her still, the god puts his right hand 

against the trunk, and even now can feel 

her heart as it beats under the new bark;

he hugs her limbs as if they were still human,

and then he puts his lips against the wood

which even now is adverse to his kiss.

" Although you cannot be my bride," he says, 

"you will assuredly be my own tree,

Oh Laurel, and will always find yourself 

girding my locks, my lyre, and my quiver too–

you will adorn great Roman generals when 

every voice cries out and joyful triumph 

along the route up to the capital:

you will protect the portals of Augustus,

guarding, on either side, his crown of oak;

and as I am—perpetually youthful,

my flowing locks unknown to the Barber shears— 

so you will be an Evergreen forever

bearing your brilliant foliage with glory!"

Phoebus concluded. Laurel shook her branches

and seemed to nod her summit in assent.

There is a grove in Thessaly, enclosed

on every side by high and wooded hills;

they call it Tempe. The river Peneus,

which rises deep within the Pindus range

pours its turbulent waters through this gorge 

and over a cataract that deafens all 

its neighbors far and near, creating clouds

that drive a fine, cool mist along, until 

it drips down through the summits of the trees.

Here is the house, the seat, the inner chambers 

of the great river; here Peneus holds court

in his rocky cavern and lays down the law 

to water nymphs and tributary streams.

First to assemble were the native rivers,

 uncertain whether to congratulate,

or to commiserate with Daphne's father: 

the Sperichos, whose banks are lined with popular poplars,

the ancient Apidanus and the mild 

Aeas and Amprysus; others came later—

rivers who, by whatever course they take,

eventually bring their flowing streams,

weary of their meandering, to sea.

Inachus was the only river absent,

Concealed in the recesses of his cave:

he added to his volume with the tears

he grimly wept for his lost daughter Io,

not knowing whether she still lived or not;

but since he couldn't find her anywhere

assumed that she was nowhere to be found—

and in his heart, he feared a fate far worse.

For Jupiter had seen the girl

returning from her father's banks and had accosted her: 

"Oh maiden worthy of almighty Jove

and destined to delight some lucky fellow 

(I know not whom) upon your wedding night,

come find some shade," he said, "in these deep woods—"

(showing her where the woods were very shady)

"While the sun blazes high above the earth! 

"But if you're worried about entering

the haunts of savage beasts by yourself,

why, under the protection of a god 

you will be safe within the deepest woods—

and no plebian god, for I am he

who bears the celestial scepter in his hand, 

I am he who hurls the roaming thunderbolt—

don't run from me!"

But run she did, through Lerna 

and Lyrcea, until the god concealed

the land entirely beneath the dense

dark mist and seized her and dishonored her.

Juno however happened to look down 

on Argos, where she noticed something odd:

swift flying clouds had turned day into night

long before nighttime. She realized

that neither falling miss nor rising fog 

could be the cause of this phenomenon,

and looked about at once to find her husband,

as one too well aware of the connivings

of a mate so often taken in the act.

When he could not be found above, she said,

"Either I'm mad—or I am being had."

She glided down to earth from heaven's summit

immediately and dispersed the clouds.

Having intuited his wife's approach,

Jove had already metamorphosed Io

 into a gleaming heifer—a beauty still,

 even as a cow. Despite herself,