Miscellaneous Structured Poems

There isn't really any underlying motif to these poems, other than that they are written using period medieval and Renaissance forms, in a more or less period voice.

The Way Of All Flesh (September, 1993)(a rondel)

Flesh, your rule has extended too long,
'tis time to quit the throne.
Are not these provinces my own?
your iron grip too strong?

Too often have your conscripts done wrong
while my captive spirit watched on.
Flesh, your rule has extended too long,
'tis time to quit the throne.

In this soul's dungeon, an angry throng
demands that your wrongs you now own;
voices are raised in rebellious song
and the seeds of discord are sown -

Flesh, your rule has extended too long.
It is time to quit the throne.

Planh For Sir Cortezia (Autumn, 1993 or Winter, 1994)

"Cortezia" is Provencal for "courtesy."

Ah, lament, ye wild, sorry winds of Fate!
Firmament, let fall to the earth your tears!
Can it be that we have come too late
To give aid to our fallen paladin?
Must we stand helpless, to only look on
As our beloved knight his end now nears?
Beholding this sad wreck, my heart it tears
And falls away; in its place sits dull lead.
For its protector, Sir Cortezia, lies dead.

I will extol him as strong and great,
As he was in life; though I am young in years,
Too young to remember his youth, I’ll rate
His worth in all his glorious battles won.
Many a maid he saved from woe, I’ll own,
To set her free from that she most fears.
Now many an ogre cloaked in night leers
From behind a convenient shed.
Lament! O woman – Sir Cortezia lies dead.

Lament, for though this world will deprecate
Me for singing of his death, yet now it hears
The effect of it. Aye, a woman raped,
A sick man shunned, a young coquette thrown
To the jackals of gossip; gossip sown
To cultivate fields of sweet malice. Here’s
A sorry sight, in our company! Pierce
The armour of uncaring, and instead
Ask, my friends, how Sir Cortezia lies dead.

Rise, good and gentle knight, from death. Create
Again that dream we lived in former years.
There is yet time; we are not now so late
To know you, to learn from the tales we spin
Or the battles we’ve won. We’re not yet done.
I await the day when comes to my ears
The song of the once and future king. He wears
Shining armour, made of bright gold, not lead.
Sir Cortezia lies asleep – not dead.

On a Theme By Jaufre Rudel (June, 1995)

This verse makes use of the form of a famous trobar lyric. There is still music existing for the lyric, so in theory you could probably sing this poem to Jaufre rudel's original tune. It's not strictly speaking medieval, but I couldn't resist putting it here.

When now the days are long in June
I love to hear the dial tone distant,
and when the sound must die - too soon -
I dream about a love as distant;
Deep in my worst debts I am drowned.
Adverts for calling cards abound,
and warm me no more than winter snow.

But I believe that the airlines one day
will let me see this love that's distant.
(Ah, for one good call, my lot, I pay
with double bills, since he's so distant)
Would as an heiress I were clad,
and with a hundred grand to add:
I'd tell my creditors which way to go.

What pleasure it would be to pay,
Good God! the bills to that place far distant;
for when I've pleased, I'd often stay
on the telephone lines with my love far distant -
What sweet discourses will abound,
when near the distant love is found:
and may the phone bill once again be low...

Love has no joy when I must stay
and pay for this love that is so distant.
Such postage, fees, would keep away
all but the dauntless from their love far distant.
So helpless am I to my debt
that I am tempted my pants to wet.
To end this plight, I'd distant go;

The industry has fashioned this, I'd say.
It's conspired to keep my good credit far away.
Oh hear me cry, and don't delay
but give m,e yet my traveller's discount -
In such sweet bliss (I'd barely stand!)
would I be, if I could leave this land -
and go where no collectors know!

Sonnet: To Marie (March, 2000)

All I can commit to paper is your hair,
the sweetness of your flesh and blood;
I would rather capture inner beauty, not stare
at the physical shadow of where you stood.
Yet I am helpless. I only obsess
on your perfect bosom, your catlike moves,
the shadowy form that I long to caress,
but surely your soul is what my soul loved?
Our conversation was delightful, our love as well
and if this fragility of feeling disproved
its reality, nevertheless, it was in love that I fell.
Your absence is something of which I'm all too aware -
yet all I can commit to paper is your hair.

Noli Me Tangere (January, 2001)

(in reply to Sir Thomas Wyatt)

Noli me tangere.
I lie alone,
my heart is of stone;
do not touch me.
Dull poisoned tips
pierce those whose guard slips -
best let me be;
my face may be fair
but wise men beware.
Noli me tangere.

Ballad For Sir William Wallace (April, 2001)

Technically, this isn't a ballade at all, but something called a chaunt royale, a very late period form introduced to the English by Chaucer but not used frequently until the time of John Donne.

I waffled a bit on how strictly to follow the format, and decided to play loose with the iambic pentameter, since English is naturally iambic anyway.

I did follow the rule of past tense endings to the letter (words that end in " - ed" really sound like they end in " - ed, unless they are given an apostrophe, in which case the "e" becomes silent) and I tried to speak in as authentic a late sixteenth century voice as possible.

Ironically, when Elizabeth I died without issue, a member of the Scottish royal house, Stuart, succeeded to the throne - although this resulted in the merging of England with Scotland and the suppression of the Scottish identity, it could be argued that the Scots really took over England until the Stuart line was replaced.

A cruel day it was, in that seventh month,
When the English monarch cross'd the Tweed,
Hot with wrath at the Scottish affront,
Heart set to avenge a humiliating deed.
But ten months past, his troops met defeat.
But ten months past, 'twas Cressingham's conceit
That saw the English scatter'd and slain.
The Scots thought to free themselves of his reign,
Heedless to loss or great sacrifice -
They knew full well, though it were writ in pain,
Life is dear, but freedom without price.

'Twas in September they sought to confront
the English troops, their advance to impede;
No machines of war, but only blunt
pikes of wood had they; but concede
they did not. Nay, e'en out number'd, in the heat
of battle they yet went forth, the enemy to greet.
On the muddy field, the blood fell as rain.
They trapped the tyrant's host on that plain
by desperate courage and cunning device.
On Scotland, the glory; on England, the stain.
Life is dear, but freedom without price.

Was it to Surrey naught but a hunt?
Or was it tight-purs'd Cressingham's greed?
Ay they laugh'd at the "poor peasant stunt"
and plann'd their ride homeward with all Godspeed -
An easy victory in their hands. Sweet
was the gain they tasted. But incomplete
were their plans; they thought to cross the Forth in vain.
No ford was there. Two rivers, and between
them but a swan's neck of land. In a trice
The Scottish host swarm'd down. The English were slain.
Life is dear, but freedom without price.

And thus it chanc'd the Plantagenet to confront
Brave Wallace; full of only one need,
That to devour him. At Falkirk the front
of English host made the land bleed -
To the great horde, the rebels were but meat
To their blades. Their leader knew defeat:
"Dance if you can," said he, in his eyes plain
The slaughter. Death was before them, but no chain
Would they wear. For them only the prize,
whether death or vict'ry, was meet -
Life was dear, but freedom without price.

The archers fell forward. With a grunt
The rebel pikemen fell, and the Tweed
ran red with blood. Beneath the affront
The Scots forces shatter'd. The field cried
with the moans of the dead. Victory complete,
the Scots betrayed, the English savour'd their sweet
success. They ground their brethren beneath them again,
And Edward grew fat and secure in his reign,
Ne'er thinking that one might him unseat.
Life is dear, and freedom without price.

L'ENVOI

At Bannockburn, seventeen years hence, the English met defeat,
The Scots drank revenge, and the taste was sweet,
Though costlier than the rarest spice.
Three hundred years pass'd e'er Scone the Lion met.
Life is dear, but freedom without price.