To You Mo Cuishle…. The Left Out Lines Of Tess Of The D’Urbervilles.

Mo Cuishle,

    Another DDOS attack. You probably know what I am talking about. Someone brought down the DNS servers that host my domain. It is not just my domain. But a lot of them went down. Now why am I telling you this. When I heard that there was a DDOS attack I went to the LonelyPoet.Com logs to check where it originated. I got couple of IP address and I passed them to DNS hosting company. In the statcounter log I can see who did what in my site. I noticed that you came to my site and was looking in the LonelyPoet’s First Drafts. I have no problem with you looking into those old first drafts. But what did you looked interested me. You looked in the first draft of “The Rally” a chapter from “Tess Of The D’Urbervilles”. This and the new profile picture interested me a lot. Haha that is kinda the dress Tess wears. Is that a Red dress or Black? I can’t say as the picture is black and white. Anyway don’t worry, I am cool…. I thought you deserve to see those lines I wrote and deleted from the first chapter of “Tess Of The D’Urbervilles”. Even though the written pages were burned a long time back the softcopy was kept in a word document format in another site. I never thought I will look at it in recent times. But pulled it out and I am posting it here. The first attempt I did to change my mind or emotions was to take Thomas Hardy’s words and change it a bit to make you look very young. You can see those lines in bold and quoted. Those words are not mine, I only rearranged it to be read in a specific way.

 

Among the May Day dancers danced,

The young girl who barely reached sixteen,

Her long reddish hair in the sun glowed,

The forehead reddened in the mild heat,

Or was the sun kind to that young girl in her dance?

 

“Phases of childhood in her aspect still lurked,

As she walked and in the evening sun danced,

In all her bouncing handsome womanliness,

Her twelfth year in her cheeks one could sometimes see,

Or her ninth from her eyes, sparkling;

And even her fifth would flit,

Over the curves of her mouth now and then”.

 

Upon her face gladness rested,

And sadness fought away by her charm,

Her eyes spoke from her soul,

Innocence and love filled in that soul,

Beauty of a kind unknown, she is,

The long nose she wiped,

To keep the pollen and dust away,

Oh’ like fresh ripened strawberries they looked,

And fought with her lips, as what can attract more.

 

Tess Durbeyfield stepping into her life,

The beauty of her body she cares not,

The beauty of her mind she know not,

Upon her soft broadening shoulders she felt,

Nothing but light weight of the dress she wear,

Her mind knew nothing of any men,

But her drunken dad and her little brother,

Not a cunning eye existed but all eyes only admired,

The beauty of this young country girl,

For whom restless youth waiting with thirst.

 

Every step she laid the Earth welcomed,

As the little daughter of mother Earth was looked,

With pride by the whole nature around,

The sunlight upon her like a parasite sat,

Glowing her skin in the essence

Of all the beauty of all dusks.

 

In her thin white gown she looked,

In expressiveness of her so modest,

Soft like a dove where innocence births,

Oh’ upon those eyes innocence of her own danced,

In the beat of her heart that spoke her soul,

Empty of all flaws, filled with the essence of love,

Oh’ romance dared to touch such perfection,

A girl out of the innocence of a kid sprouting,

Her senses absorbing all the beauty of all around,

And makes her looks and deeds, perfect poetry.

 

Her hands so soft, her neck curved and the rest of her,

Thriving to explode into womanhood,

In beauty and enchantment.

Upon her bosom, dreams of perfect romance rest,

And sleeps on the softness of her skin,

Listening to her soul and they learn,

Verses lovers will chant, hand in hand as prayers,

When they day dream and be in love.

 

Upon her lovely lips rest,

Words that hold wisdom of a little heart,

Words in obedience listened by the leaves,

And with the spring time wind sung,

Who came from the rim of the blue hill top,

With scent of the wild flowers he kissed,

And leaves those scent upon her,

Oh’ she always smelt like a wild flower,

And looked like a country girl,

She walked like a princess of love,

And she blessed Angels with her dance.

 

I stopped writing at this point… because what was coming in my mind to write has got nothing to do with character. Even in these lines you can see I am going way away from any story line. I am back with that story line. Not back going crazy over anything else. Hehehe

I read these lines and laughed a lot… it all looks and sounds like a laughing matter. I am not laughing at you. I am not laughing at me either. I am laughing at a poet who just did not realized that reality many times is a lot different than many poetic things that comes in front.

 

Have a great weekend Mo Cuishle.

 

Riaz Ahammed.