I admire so many things about Eve Beglarian. Among them are her trueness to herself, her continued questing, her beautiful, unending creating.
In this piece, she evokes, in collaboration with David Felberg, the splendor of an Emily Dickinson poem.
Here is the poem, with thanks to Eve for this discovery.
The Spirit lasts—but in what mode—
Below, the Body speaks,
But as the Spirit furnishes—
Apart, it never talks—
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch,
yet Touch Alone—is not a Tune—
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh
Like Tides within the Sea
That make the Water live, estranged
What would the Either be?
Does that know—now—or does it cease—
That which to this is done,
Resuming at a mutual date
With every future one?
Instinct pursues the Adamant,
Exacting this Reply—
Adversity if it may be, or
The Rumor’s Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was sown,
Not even a Prognostic’s Push
Could make a Dent thereon—
Thank you, Eve. For your unceasing urge to create, for your glittering, fulsome humanity, for everything.