From a Jester to his Queen

Today I am posting a poem that I started working on yesterday. I am not usually one to write a whole bunch of drafts with my poetry (unless prompted  to do so), but this poem started in the completely wrong way (wrong tone, wrong perspective, going in the wrong direction). So I took a few hints from the P&W prompts I have completed in the past and changed it up. I took the original writing, reversed the order of the lines, picked out the phrases that I liked the best and redrafted twice.


I didn't originally intend for this to be a RemembeRED post, but it was inspired by a memory, and I can't think of jesters without imagining red, so this will also serve as my Red Dress Club post for the week.


This is what I came up with:

From a Jester to his Queen

Here my resignation lies, my queen, at your feet. I must away -

but do not sorrow, for another fool will take my place.

Perhaps he will mock you appropriately, where I have faltered.

I must go my separate way, but worry not! For your court

is greatly populated with those ready to serve your will;

your childhood bed filled with stuffed animals to bow to your whim.

I, too, once populated your little kingdom, running amok at your will.

You would run and I would give chase, bound to my duties.

We two were fools together: myself licensed, you a natural

taking up the parts of the players: you the hero, myself

the distressed damsel, though my beard often gave me away.

The animals would whisper behind their paws, but you affected

not to notice. It was all a part of your elaborate façade,

but your excitements quickly became thin, your meanings

were not meaningful and the animals smiled vapidly for you.

You sat upon your throne and doled out judgments, all around –

no one could be missed. Your fluffy subjects trembled and quaked.

With a vengeful eye, you were willing to cry until ill to get your way.

You confided in me your worry that the leopard would not

give up his spots to you, nor the elephant share his wrinkles.

You gathered your many whims into you and snuggled them close,

your stuffed subjects laying asunder and neglected.

But it is not my place to say, though I am the kind who says

when it is not my place. I must only say that playing the fool

for a fool is no fun and is not something I will to do any longer.

Again I say this: do not despair, my queen, for someone else will come

who will be confided in and called upon, with motley hat and gloves.

I am no loss, for I did not amuse you enough to hold your attention

and you did not amuse me enough to continue. 

Comments welcome, as always.

For fun information on jesters, check out this link. This image was pulled from Wikipedia Commons, here.

Heaven Bent

P&W prompt number 8 for me (as usual thanks to Angelspeak):


Choose a cliched phrase (“fit as a fiddle,” “think out of the box,” “running on empty,” etc.) and turn it around. Use the new meaning created by this reversal to fuel a poetic meditation.


I decided to use the phrase "Hell-bent for leather" which is sometimes shortened to "Hell-bent", meaning to be going very fast. I changed the phrase to "Heaven-bent" and slowed it down a bit.

Heaven Bent

He walked the trail upward ahead of me

taking the landscape one pace at a time, 

slowing his stride imperceptibly to give me

the chance to catch up as I panted behind

"Why do you always pick the highest

climb you can find on the trail?" I asked,

wondering if I would get any reply this time

 mentally counting the hundreds before

Patiently he climbed, taking time to breathe,

time to live and experience each moment 

of the unhurried ascent, early afternoon sun 

shining around his blonde locks like a halo 

Puffing to catch up where I'd fallen back

I scrambled up a yet steeper, shorter path

only to stumble and scrape both knees 

with a tight wince, but not a sound escaping

A solid hand reached out to help - I took it

gratefully after my rash moment, pain subsiding

the steady calm of him capturing me completely 

"From up there we can touch the heavens."

Comments welcome.

Orphic Mission

Today's post is another from the P&W prompt series (again, thanks to Angelspeak):


Flip through the dictionary and randomly choose 10 words. Write a poem with each word in every other line.


Here are the words I collected (with definitions from Merriam-Webster):


perigee - the point on the moon's elliptical path closest to Earth (making it look large)
apogee - the point on the moon's elliptical path farthest from Earth (making it look small)
quintessence - the most typical example of a thing; the essence of a thing in its most pure/concentrated form;the fifth and highest element in ancient and medieval philosophy that permeates all nature and is the substance composing the celestial bodies
divest - to undress or strip
orphic - having to do with Orpheus (the poet/musician who almost rescues his wife Eurydice from Hades by charming Pluto and Persephone with his lyre)
lignin (or lignify) - the substance that makes wood cells hard ( to convert into wood/woody tissue)
tissular - relating to organismic tissue
embrew (another spelling of imbrue) - to stain (something)
wame - (chiefly Scottish) the belly; in a woman, the womb
forbear - to hold back or abstain, particularly with effort


I got some from links on the front page of the site and rest from browsing the dictionary by letter. It wasn't until I looked up quintessence a second time that I got the celestial/alchemical definition, but by that time I already had 8 words and a theme was starting to arise. Words like changeling started coming to mind, so I came up with a draft: (the link is really worth reading if you don't know too much about about changeling/fairy lore - some of the references will make more sense)

With sweat streaming, a woman on an orphic mission

made her way up ol’ fairye hill, her fair complexion ruddy

with the strain of climbing. So close was the perigee moon

and with it the hope of recovering her baby for this changeling,

the hope that the quintessential vulnerability of her child, her real child

kept it safe from the little people’s wicked ways.

This child, stock or fetch, lignifying in her arm, failed to thrive.

Its tissular structures became rigid as she neared the stones-

her last chance at saving her little girl. The tugging of fear at her wame

collapsed any confidence she had left, embrewing her thoughts

 divesting her of her power to have an effect. Passing the lump in her arms

through the Crick stones thrice, she waited her child with hope.

The moon forbore its ancient potent, as though the apogee had come

too soon.


Because that was just terrible and the interesting words I had picked were often too obscure to really convey well the meaning, I drafted again, dropping the words where necessary, but trying to retain their meaning as much as possible.  

Orphic Mission

Sweat streaming into her eyes, a young woman panted

up ol' fairye hill, her fair complexion ruddy with strain.

The full moon bloomed large over the crest of the hill

a terra cotta medallion, her only remaining hope.

Pulling at the swaddling blankets in her arms, she glanced

at the false infant, a stock or fetch, lignifying before her eyes

a failure to thrive that was apparent from the moment she saw

the out-turned coat on the floor, fallen from the cradle.

The struggle to breathe, a hint of blue at the tips of the fingers

Gasping and grasping, a suddenly fussy changeling lay

where once was nestled a tranquil child, touched by the heavens

The deceitful being she held became more and more rigid

as she neared the stones - her last chance at saving her little girl

A fear tugged in her belly, collapsing any confidence she held,

imbruing her thoughts and divesting her of maternal power

Passing the body in her arms through the crick stone thrice

She awaited the arrival of her child, hope waning

The moon withheld its ancient potency, as though the perigee

had come too late




Comments welcome.

Alarm Sounding

Today I addressed another P&W prompt (picked up from Angelspeak). 

Write a sonnet, a fourteen-line poem made up, typically, of three stanzas of four lines, and a fourth of two lines, or a couplet. Use the following rhyme scheme: In each of the first three stanzas, rhyme the first and third lines and the second and fourth lines (a, b, a, b, c, d, c, d, e, f, e, f); and rhyme the lines of the couplet (g, g). For a traditional example, see Shakespeare’s ”From you have I been absent in the spring….”For a contemporary example, see Denis Johnson’s ”Heat.”

For the record, I really dislike this prompt. Sonnets – what a pain in the butt. Really. I spent more than a hour counting and recounting feet of poetry on my fingers while trying to think of rhymes that didn’t sound silly. I’m not sure I succeeded. I will, no doubt, re-write this poem to capture something much better in the near future. (Note – this reads better if you add a brief caesura after the word stillness of line 5.)

Alarm Sounding

The silent snowy hills of arctic light

are full of trees immeas’rable in worth

The summer days leave so few hours of night

or living things to walk upon this earth.

Through stillness now suddenly emerges

the sound of living earth, it tears and rends

Earth shattering, through stone and rock surges

a force that more than mother natures bends.

The cry – the breaking of an arctic shelf

a severing of earth sounds the alarm

a crime on nature in and of itself

a thing it seems no living thing could harm

A crime that we should kill the wilderness

by living lives that venture to excess.

Comments are welcome, as always.

P&W Prompt 4 (Originally 6)

Prompt from P&W (and Angelspeak):

Choose a poem that you've written and rewrite it in its reverse, making the last line first, etc. Revise this version, creating a new poem.

So I chose a poem that I wrote in October of 2009. It was about a girl who was "secretly" involved with a guy I very briefly dated. She had a tendency to try to only treat me nicely when there was no one else to talk to and it annoyed me greatly. I was always nice, but found her flaky, shallow tendencies too much for me one day. Here's the original:

You look down upon me

and I wish

I could sit so high in the world

You whisper quiet conversations

enticing him in slowly

with otherwise mundane

complained efforts

You word yourself out

The chip on your shoulder

growing to my eyes

Showing you sheltered privilege 

you talk about money

then brushing it away

and unneeded endowment offered

Only when our eyes meet

do you shrink away, false modesty

your downward sneer again

Your clicking heels 

The hallway echoes widely

it shares my contempt

rejoicing the abating sound

The prompt is to reverse the lines and compose a new poem. Here's the reverse:

Rejoicing the abating sound

it shares my contempt

the hallway echoes widely

your clicking heels

Your downward sneer again

do you shrink away, false modesty

only when our eyes meet

An unneeded endowment offered

then brushing it away

you talk about money

showing your sheltered privilege

Growing to my eyes

the chip on your shoulder

you word yourself out

Complained efforts

with otherwise mundane

enticing him in slowly

you whisper quiet conversations

I could sit so high in the world

and I wish

You look down upon me

Then I revised and rewrote my (now long abandoned) contempt Again it is untitled – suggested titles are welcome. Here is the final product:

I rejoice the abating sound of clicking heels

in the echoing hallways that share my contempt

for your attitude - your presence, one moment

sniveling and sweet, another condescending

Your downward sneer is spotted so

you shrink away, false modesty appearing

in your shoulders, in the arch of your neck

but your eyes flash and give you away

From abroad, an unneeded endowment offered

You brush it away, your talk of money clearly

exhibiting the sheltered privilege

from which you look down at me, at all

Now growing, to my eyes, is the chip

on your shoulder, in conversation

your word yourself out, pretension only

a short stroll from your misused vernacular

Performing your cheap woes, your seduction

no more than mundane complaints, aloof

and apathetic, you try to entice him

with whispered words and quiet conversations

I could sit so high in the world, looking down

such a slender nose at every human connection, 

but I do not find the presence of others

to be abhorrent - just yours. 

As always, comments are welcome. 

P&W Prompt 3 - Dog Days

The Prompt: (retrieved from Angelspeak)  

What is something you are afraid to write about in your own poems, either because it is too personal, or because you feel it is cliché? Create a character - a swarthy bum, a baker, a dog - and write a narrative poem in which your character addresses this topic. Let the fact that the poem isn't really about you be freeing.

So here we go again with the P&W prompts... I'll let you know, I'm not a poet. I'll do my best to follow the prompt and I'll even take it's advice - my character is going to be a dog. A dog with human thoughts, because I don't speak dog and can't translate it for you.


Dog Days

"What's wrong with it?"
"Mommy, why doesn't the doggy want to play?"
"I don't like it, Carletta. What if it goes after one of the kids?"

Their questions of concern fly around me,
not really thinking, not really wanting
to know the answers to the riddle. I'm a dog
and that is all they want me to be

but I'm not their dog. They didn't ask me
where I came from or how I got there.
They weren't told that the person I loved
has died, is gone, will never rub my ears
ever again.

"Did you ask the shelter?"
"It was a transfer - they didn't know anything."
"I'm worried. Sometimes she snaps when you touch her."

They weren't told that I wasn't fed for days,
that when they found the body I was ignored,
not even thought of, tied there and left.
The kid next door kicked me. I was already down.

They don't ask me what I'm dreaming about
when I bite down on the bedding and kick.
They just get annoyed when I howl at night,
looking for a soft hand on my head.

The Rottweiler at the metal fence just barks angrily
and the German short-hair at the white fence tells me
all these humans are depressed - they never play,
but then they should get it, shouldn't they?

As always - comments welcome!

Finally... P&W Prompt 2

Prompt (which I picked up at Angelspeak):

Write an erasure poem:  Rip out one or two pages from a magazine or newspaper.  Read through them, underlining words and phrases that appeal to you and that relate to each other.  Using a marker or WhiteOut, begin to delete the words around those you underlined, leaving words and phrases that you might want to use.  Keep deleting the extra language, working to construct poetic lines with the words you’ve chosen to keep.

--
Since I am in Hong Kong and only have one magazine, which I just very recently acquired and do not care to rip up, I took the first article that appeared when I chose “Random Article” from the task bar. I got “Bernard Mandeville”. I ended up using 51 of the 67 words that I chose from article. I've set up a page on which you can see the entire process, but because of the long nature of writing this short story, it was too much to put in a single post. Here is the final product of this prompt:
 


The World Unmasked

Cold, sharp evenings of the ides of November always drove folk into their homes or taverns or brothels come evening. Into the dank of a peacefully seedy bar stumbled a group of five, the likes of which were rarely known to give patronage to such a lowly den. But men cannot be divided into lower and higher, or at least will not. Thus the well-respected company, known in the society pages for their conversational abilities and relations with one another, acted contrary to the impulse of their nature and enjoyed the entertainment of the common.  None of this activity was actually detrimental to their reputations, they who thrived until age or lack of wealth brought them tumbling down; they were far superior to the brutes found in such establishments.

One man among them, The Philosopher, a satirist, had led the crowd into the bar. He was of the “ministry of advocating intellectual progress” and therefore endeavored to enlighten his wealthy peers, hoping to make them knaves turned honest by exposing them to the cruelty of lesser living.His search into the nature of society piqued the interest of several society types:

One, The Gentleman, who was the patron of our fine philosopher, looked more like a parson in a tye-wig than a financier. His reputation did not fare much better, but his well-paid bankers did and so he came to be a patron of free thoughts. Short and stout, he panted along slightly in the wake of his longer-legged companions, always trying to keep up and steaming from his sweaty effort in the cold night air.

The Poet, another under the patronage of The Gentleman, was famous for his unknown origin. He had come to France to learn the language from which he sculpted his craft and succeeded so remarkably that many refused to believe he was a foreigner. His pièce de résistance had emerged within his first year, two hundred doggerel couplets to his name, leaving all of Paris a grumbling hive of bees for another comedic burlesque.

With the men traveled two women: a pair rarely separate when seen in society. The Prudefemme and The Temptress, Exactness and Beauty personified. The two had managed to forgo falling out of the societal limelight by playing an exigent balancing act in which each embodied the foil of the other. The Prudefemme, shrewd and judicious, was known for her righteous proclamations for the cause of justice. The Temptress, the more socially risqué of the two, was reputed to have graced the homes and beds of the most extravagantly wealthy men in the world. Each of their private vices resulted in various public benefits: while the former was known to obtain the confessions of and absolve the latter of her sin, the latter kept the former active in and attractive to society.  The give-and-take arrangements between the two partners had allowed each to navigate the social waters of being taken in by a man and returning out again, each reputation unscathed. Their sometimes seemingly invisible cooperation had, however, led to the relentless struggle against social death for many a man.

“Come and have your fortunes read,” croaked a decrepit woman from the corner. She sat with a single candle burning low and a glass of some deep brown liquid clasped in gnarled hands, a kerchief binding her hair. A gypsy - such women were not unknown to the niches of Paris, said to come from the basest and vilest of origins. Nor were they unknown to those of a lofty position in society. Those most high dabbled into these lower arts, claiming them as entertainments, for “evil desires existed only in the hearts of the truly wretched”, whose lack of means drove them to petty crime.

Amid their already drunken exuberance, the party of five decided to pursue such historical inquiries as could be conjured by such a woman. She would play the guide that garnered truth in their game of guess-and-tell by properly channeling the ghosts of untold pasts. The crone sat bent in her corner, eyeballing each member of the party as they crowded around her table to meet their destiny. Swaying from side to side, her creaky voice buzzed with a deep hum only to stop abruptly.

To The Gentleman she looked, her voice raised high, startling the ladies to shrieks and making the gentleman jump on their stools, "Beware women! You find close company with a wolf in sheep's clothing. Alas, he has pulled the wool over your eyes. For chaste he may seem, but only to hide his vicious greed for the dexterous management of the female body."

Doubting their ears and looking around nonplussed for the convicted, the company followed the gaze of the woman. The two women, having flocked near the man who invoked the image of the clergy all evening, came contemporaneously to a vile conclusion regarding The Gentleman’s previous absence of sexual pursuit. He must be much more crafty than they had suspected, partaking in “mischiefs that ought justly to be apprehended” as The Prudefemme would later say. The stout man gurgled with anger and fear, opening his mouth to object, but was interrupted by another squawk of their aged reader.

To The Poet this time, the woman spoke not loudly, but in a whisper that brought all faces closer to the candle’s flame: “You were born to the netherlands of an opportunist male … no, female prostitute.”  

All eyed the latest victim with wonderment, not knowing if this would harm or enhance his stature. With writers, one could never tell.

As though she could detect the belles getting comfortable with the higher ground, the conjure woman called again:  The Prudefemme, known for seeking honesty and virtue was revealed as The Hypochondriack, subject to hysteric passions, largely believed to be brought on by immoral tendency. Her cohort, The Temptress became The Virgin Unmasked, belying her reputation of sexual progress.

Now the men turned to the gentler sex and gawked like school boys. The Prudefemme tried to regain her previous countenance as her partner fell into apathy, utterly paralyzed.  Something of their conjoined wonder had gone.

Without the desire to continue the crone’s revealing game, the dismayed group gathered their cloaks for departure and made their way out of the grungy bar, wondering at the still solid reputation of The Philosopher, suspicious that he himself may well have been involved.





As always, I appreciate comments and suggestions.