Imaginary Poems of English Monarchs

Part 1

Mel C. Thompson

Copyright © 2008

The following are limited selections from the booklet

Contact the author for free PDFs and/or free chapbooks of full text.

Alfred The Great (849-899)

I am the only English Monarch

Entitled simply The Great.

My bold statue at Winchester

Is set against a mighty sky.

Behold my broadsword aloft

And my hulking royal shield.

I spent my time fighting Vikings,

A hard calling by any reckoning.

Call me Protector of The Poor,

A man confirmed by Pope Leo.

What other kings have translated

The Consolations of Philosophy?

The cause of my death is not known.

But you do know I was a poet.

Ethelweard (904-924)

There was much I might have said

As I was a very well-read child.

They say I was reclusive, ensconced

In a small town in Shropshire.

It appears I did not battle my way

To the fleeting throne I held.

The Witan appointed me King

In accord with their fabled wisdom.

I was King for sixteen short days

Before I met a most untimely death.

My ambitious half-brother

Remains the leading suspect.

For eternity I am uncrowned.

So many books. So little time.

Edred (923-955)

My mother was the third wife

Of my father the King.

She quietly outlived him.

My sister was a nun.

Perhaps a hermit’s robe

Would have suited me well.

But I was propelled to the throne

By the sheer force of heredity.

I fought the Danes successfully,

Though I was a sickly man.

My military prowess stands

In spite of my lack of appetite.

My eyes somberly looked

To thrones beyond this world.

Edwy The Fair (941-959)

Legend has my wandering eye

Settling on lovely Ethelgive.

That old prude Saint Dunstan

Dragged me away from my love.

So I plundered his monastery

And chased him to Flanders.

My scheming family huddled

With the Archbishop of Odo.

They took the whole North

And I kept only the South.

By the time I learned to govern,

The Grim Reaper was already knocking.

At eighteen or nineteen I expired

With so much love unmade.

Saint Edward The Martyr (962-979)

The Devil sent some foul beasts

To murder me in my youth.

I lived the life of a saint

and slept the sleep of the just.

Each Sabbath found me in prayer.

Each poor mouth I fed with joy.

But the noblemen had other plans.

They attacked the church I loved

And divided the spoils like highwaymen.

I stood in loyal defense of the monks.

For this I was stabbed to death

By my dear stepmother.

An inheritance is a dangerous thing.

Take care, lest yours be stolen too.

Canute The Hardy (1018-1042)

How odd it now seems to my spirit

That my Danish body should be buried

In Winchester Cathedral in England.

I came seeking vengeance, but my fleet

Of sixty-two warships met no resistance.

I was quietly invited to take the throne.

My rule was brutal and unpopular.

My reign is not credited with anything

Other than crushing taxes and routine

Betrayal. I died of a sudden seizure.

My absurd reign lasted only two years

And Edward The Confessor reclaimed

The throne for the House of Wessex.

In Valhalla, I am a complete unknown.