Posted: 07/25/01
Title: Nursery Rhymes: The Princess
Category: Poem
Pairings: R+1, R+D/D+R
Rating/Warning: ? None, I suppose.
Feedback: Asking for feedback when posting poetry is a dangerous thing. ^_~ Nonetheless, any & all is appreciated.
Note: Okay, first off, I'm on one of my one day poetry kicks which (surprise!) lasts one day. So, I figured I might as well make the best of things and attempt to lay down the characters of Gundam Wing in verse. The difficulty in this is that almost all fans and writers (myself included) see many, many ambivalent forces within one character. While it's refreshing to be able to interpret a character in so many ways (makes for wonderfully dynamic writing), presenting them _all_ sometimes makes the writer seem like... how shall I phrase this... an epileptic schizophrenic watching Pokemon and snorting coke? So, I'm cheating; whatever poetry I can wrest from the bulbous mass that is my brain will be presented in rather incongruent fragments, switching characterizations *and* styles.
Here's Relena. I don't understand exactly why I'm writing so much of her, but I'm having a little *too* much fun doing it. Here, we have pensive-Relena, infatuated-Relena, semi-mature-Relena with a slice of Beat-Dorothy (don't even ask...), and random-Relena. The first poem was inspired by the first line of one of Allen Ginsberg's poem (the title isn't coming to mind, but the first line is, "Neal Cassady was my animal." I'm not sure how _this_ came of _that_, but...) The second was prompted by another one of Ginsberg's pieces, and like the first, there is no stylistic resemblance. For the curious, inspiration this time around was from "Kaddish." I think I sense the influence of both Byron and cummings in there, but that's just my take on something written spontaneously. (Spontaneous writing is dangerous to analyze... O_o;;;;) The third-- more Ginsberg (I had a copy of his _Collected Poems_ with me in China and little else), but not only for the superficial usage of "yr"; something about Dorothy interacting with Relena makes me want to use that... But there's something about the opening lines that smacks of Allen (maybe a piece of "White Shroud"?). Four. Ha. Well, four is short, weird, and Zechs-centric, but I'd imagine that Relena would wonder about her brother sometimes, about her own forgotten last moments in Sanq as a child... Five is an older Relena reminiscing over her childhood & the G-boys with a little sprinkle of whimsy. The last line comes full circle with the first. And then, the wonderful quiet of the end of my poetry. Heh. *^_^*
Thanks: to people who read, people who write, people who draw, people who talk, and particularly to a certain individual who most certainly does not know who he is. And should be thankful for that. ^_~
1.
Papa always loved me; he'd call me his princess &
bounce me on his knee.
I stole my mother's lipstick once, encased in silver,
dauntingly female.
I was surprised at the sudden smear of rotten
cherries;
I could almost taste the ground bones, sour oxides,
and fish scales.
My blue eye'd infant gaze peers from a thousand
picture frames,
But those photographs are vague, taken from a blurred
camera lens,
Which cannot match the lucidity of smoke, heat, shots,
screams;
What I remember best are the wails of a thousand
twirling sirens.
And Morpheus[1] was never kind, his flowers sprung
from nightmare seeds;
I could not bear the endless blaze, nor withstand the
disarray.
I counted knights, instead, leaping, sword in hand, on
snow-white steeds,
Watched the clocks round, hours pass, insomniac, dusk
to day.
I believe that I liked the game of princess best when
it was papa's name,
A regalia of paper crowns, cotton gowns, cardboard
scepters proud.
But this parody of royalty danced by puppet strings,
bowed by silent blame?
I cannot face the old photographs if these lips shall
speak these lies for vows.
Their faces twist with distorted glee as they shout,
they beckon, they call,
Our princess ascends to Queen! Ascent? 'Tis no ascent;
'tis fall.
2.
& i found him by the sea--
And he said, I will destroy you,
And he said, Your father's dead.
And he said, I can't allow you,
And he said, Into my head.
And he said, I'll never love you.
And he said, You'll never win.
And he said, I don't need you,
And he said, To remind me of my sins.
whose eyes these are, whose fatal gaze,
whose gun under black second skin[2] do click, surprise,
bewitch those girls with their disguise,
& spare goodbyes.
whose lips these are, whose damning words,
whose furious hips under black second skin do dip,
entrancing those damsels with their distress;
undress, undress.
amour, like armor or ocean tides,
waxes high, waning thin;
but this boy, this eternal boy[3],
who fell like dying stars descend--
dare you entrap what was wild? dare i?
whose lies these are, whose masquerade,
whose honeyed-tongues slip in my ears,
betray those maidens dressed in white,
tonight, tonight.
whose name is this, whose name i call,
what boy is this, what is his game,
delude the princess that this is love,
just because.
And she said, I think I love you,
And she said, Please don't die,
And she said, I can't allow you,
And she said, To pass me by.
And she said, I'll never understand you,
And she said, I wish I could,
And she said, I think I need to,
And she said, To believe that you are Good.
--like worn glass[4].
3.
they called her witchgirl, and i thought she was
beautiful;
animal grace, good hunting, better bedding.
her rapunzel's hair loosed, like light beaten gold,
made me want to cry sometimes, let me down from your
tower,
for i am afraid of heights, and you make me dizzy.
she only laughed and said:
yr Absolut Pacifism is like a drink[5],
yr princess airs reek of rotten fruit,
and yr thoughts are others' blended think,
supplied by grinning men in suits.
they called me honorifics, and she thought it absurd;
sniveling girls, sycophantic, insipid.
her love for war, browsing thick volumes of battles,
made me want to flee sometimes, thinking we're wrong for each other,
like stalin and ghandi, war and peace over tea.
she only laughed and said:
yr heart is stronger than yr spine,
yr eyes are like the rising floods,
my eyes are yrs and yrs are mine,
yet i see glory, and you see blood.
4.
brother
your throne crumbled a decade ago
your kingdom gone in smoke and gunpowder
your mother pressed one lipstick'd kiss to your cheek
and your father took off his crown and wept
5.
If I looked into yesterday, I would smile at the
recollection.
There she is: scared, scarcely fifteen, curtsying so
she can hide her eyes.
The hesitant bangs, appraising gleam of blue,
tremulous mouth-- o--
Enamored with the angles of this boy's body,
blushingly unsure of her own.
The modern equation for princess & knight is
Princess-of-defunct-kingdom-now-politician's-daughter
&
Knight-in-Spandex-armor-also-rebel-with-a-cause;
While tabloids speculate now, Darlian Teen Paramour
Nameless Soldier?
Wherein I reply, I knew his name.
Death made me shudder like the reaper's blade swung
over my head.
The stillness, the pervading silence seemed
unnatural--
Alas! We are born creatures groping for the grave;
Death's innate in life, biologically programmed by the
beats of our hearts.
But when I was five, a dead robin lay on my
windowsill,
And I cried for my nurse, who kindly said,
Dearling, it's dead, it breaths no more.
Unbelieving, I brushed it from the ledge, willing it
to fly--
It fell three stories, and I shed tears into her wise
apron.
But I like the boy named Death.
I'm glad now that he fired twice, saved me from that
unwilling knight.
Then (I remind you, scarcely fifteen), I placed my
flesh before his,
Waiting defiantly for the tear of metal I knew would
never come.
It is then that I realized that Death was kind,
reluctant;
He only wants a little company.
When I was eight, I went to the circus.
So much to do, to see; I ate peanuts, wisps of cotton
candy;
I touched the elephants, delighted at the dulled ivory
horns;
I clapped for the jugglers, held my breath for the
fire-eaters;
And I laughed at the antics of the painted ones.
Red noses, absurd shoes, black stars around their
eyes,
Their permanent grins in the limelight.
Afterwards, I ran off, convinced of my future as a
trapeze artist,
And I found him behind the circus tent,
One solitary burning lamp the spotlight to his misery.
His face was anguish; tears streaking the charming
smile,
His eyes black bruises, awful in the light,
His skin's pallor alarming in the night.
I still quiet at the Great Ironies,
At the stark rows of broken teeth behind the painted
glee.
I saw his show once, those gleaming knives thrown by
expert wrists;
I noticed that he never blinked,
Not for the lights, not for the crowds, not for the
honed blades.
And those green eyes, slightly numb (perhaps
faraway?),
Remain to haunt me while blue eyes fade.
And the half-mask, the thin yet distinct line between
false & true--
The merry painted fiction more pleasant in its lies.
We might have been married if we had hailed from an
earlier age.
Our fathers didn't golf together, but they exchanged a
gruff respect.
Had my paper kingdom stood a thousand years ago,
He would have bowed before my father's throne, touched
the floor,
And dutifully (those kind, aquamarine eyes) asked for
my hand--
--Even if the seamstress had already sewwn the gown,
--Even if our lovers waited with faith iin fate's
fickle kiss,
--Even if our fathers had smiled over ouur infant heads,
--Even if the wedding bands rested in hiis fist.
And kissed my lips on wedding day,
And stained the sheets on wedding night,
And they would marvel, the perfect bridegroom, the perfect bride,
And never know the space between their wrong and right.
But we never live then, we always live now,
And our fathers both died the violent deaths of men of
peace.
0-- the impossible division of mind and machine by system[6].
Perhaps I envy the abandon within destruction,
Longing for the luxury of insanity, an excuse for mental ataxia.
I remember staring at him, blond, blue eyes, pink, and thinking:
That could be me. I could kill, raise pacifism on a dais of death.
Shaking my head, a little awed: be lamb and wolf both,
My own cruel martyrdom.
If you trace my blood back far enough, I'm Roman.
Our gods ramsacked from hundreds of Greek temples,
We renamed them and cast their forms anew.
Jupiter for Zeus, Juno for Hera, Pluto for Hades--
Justitia for Themis[7].
His? Chang Yong[8], and I sometimes wonder if his blood's divine.
But Justice can be raped, her blindfold convenient for a gag,
Her robe hitched by filthy, deceitful hands.
And Justice can be depraved, Justice can be a whore,
Her scales like those presented by unshaven men with roaming eyes.
Sometimes I thought it was he who wore the blindfold, and
Sometimes I thought it was he whose celestial judgment would damn me.
Justice was his purpose, and if She failed, he lost what defined him,
Like bleaching black on white; what fills the space defines it.
And with the black faded, erased, there is the stark nothing.
Warriors do not gather dust, they raise their arms;
This is the inherent danger to having purpose for purpose's sake.
Absolute Pacifism was my purpose;
My father (not my papa) was a pacifist, so I reasoned it was in my blood,
In my DNA-- funny genetic codes for amino acids that read:
WARISVERYBAD.
Those who fought for me took the bullets aimed at my
head into theirs,
But even I've leveled a gun between someone's eyes.
Absolute Pacifism, Justice, instinctive purposes that
lack meaning--
Merely because they are instinctive, not understood.
Empathy cannot be afforded, save from the dead.
I can't remember my father's death, only the buzzing cacophony.
But my papa--
I loved my papa so:
the beard that scratched my head when he kissed me, or
how I fumbled through his briefcase, crayoning papers, or
how he took his breakfast (black coffee, toast, eggs benedict), or
that wistful look he threw my way, the way he tapped my nose...
Nevermind. I miss my papa so.
The End
Notes:
[1] Morpheus = Greek god of dreams.
[2] I think "Spandex" would have been bad usage. ::grins::
[3] Here, I think specific credit must be given. While I don't think Heero Yuy is what Ginsberg's eternal boy of San Francisco is, the phrase seemed to fit. It's from his "Malest Cornifici Tuo Catullo."
[4] Then again (see [3] above), comparing Heero Yuy to a piece of sea glass isn't a wonderful simile either. ^_^;;;;
[5] Whenever anyone says absolute + noun, I always think of the vodka. O_o; I've never tasted Absolut Pacifism, but I'd bet that it was kiwi-infused liquor.
Yes, I'm being stupid. Again. ;D
[6] I suspect that I'm still the only one that finds the idea of the Division by Zero system (as seen in _Warped Mirrors_) really, really, really funny. "But that's impossible!" "*Exactly*!"
[7] Justitia and Themis are the respective goddesses of justice of Rome and Greece.
[8] Chang Yong is one of the many goddesses of justice in China. There's still Daji, Dou Mou, Doushen, Meng Po, Niangniang... you get the point.
--
Oi. Bad muse. _Bad_.
- jay -
who pleads the 5th