Betrayal
She wore a crown of diamonds
On that fair and golden head.
Rings were on her fingers,
Satin sheets were on her bed.
Her body dripped with jewels,
Emerald green and ruby red.
But, has she ever had a heart
And has it ever bled?
Nothing hurts like shattered trust,
Betrayal's deepest pain,
And no one knows the agony
One finds in love's refrain.
"I love you so," she told me,
And my hopes I would regain,
But nothing now will ease the hurt
Or cleanse away the stain.
Did she ever love us?
I believed her! I was blind.
I couldn't see the scheming
That went on inside that mind.
How quickly do our memories fade
As time moves to unwind.
I trusted so that woman's heart,
So certain what I'd find.
But how can fortune cause to turn
From love a mother's sight
Or leave her children all alone
To face the heartless night,
To wish that they would disappear
And go where'er they might,
To lock those infants in a cage
Kept far from warmth and light?
Perhaps God can forgive you
For the awful things you do.
Perhaps your gems are worth
The many horrors we've gone through.
Will your chains be of diamonds,
Opal fire and sapphire blue?
I hope He can have mercy,
But I damn you . . . too late to.
And now for the movies. These were largely written in my college years and frequently reflect, perhaps, too much time on my hands. For example, this poem, "Henriette and Casanova" is a direct result of the TV miniseries version of Casanova (I think the one with Richard Chamberlain from 1987). In any case, it was a version fairly focused on his fumbled pairing with his otherwise one true love. Did I mention I was a sucker for stuff like that?
Henriette and Casanova
He'd known so many women
'Fore he met his Henriette,
And he cherished all those women
While he felt not one regret,
But Henriette was everything
He loved those women for.
He wanted so to marry her,
To worship and adore.
She loved this sweet ingenious man
Who held all women dear,
But even as she loved him,
Her heart held still one fear:
That she was just another face
Of many he had known,
That she was just another oat
Among the ones he'd sown. . .
He gambled off his purse that night
'Til naught of it remained,
Then gambled off a lady's coin
Not asking what she claimed,
Then claim she did that what he owed
Be paid but not with gold,
And, though, at first, resist he did,
He soon agreed to hold—
Dear God! 'Twas his own Henriette
Who'd put him to the test
And left him with a couple words
That would not let him rest:
"You also will forget
Your Henriette."
The words carved in the window
In the bedroom that they shared,
Where she had truly loved him,
Where he had truly cared.
He did not need to see them;
They were branded on his heart,
But anguish could not kill this man. . .
Just tear his dreams apart.
In Venice, did his name grow famed,
Reputation grow less bright.
He squandered fortunes through the day
And others' wives at night,
But touched no woman 'gainst her will,
Just never told her, "No."
They loved him for his worship,
For the reverence he'd bestow,
But others felt no pleasure
In the role this lover played
And sent the man to prison
For the piper must be paid.
The lover's heart could not be caged,
Nor was this man a fool—
Escaping where none had before
With clever makeshift tools,
Then made his way abroad again
While Europe learned his name,
But often he would stop, reflect,
Amidst his growing fame:
"I never will forget,
Dear Henriette."
He still was in such great demand
That lessened naught with time,
But mayors were not welcoming
For he'd not toe the line.
He traveled more, for cities were
More closed to tarnished fame,
Though women came as quickly
When he told each one his name.
Still, they held their magic
For he could not love them less;
For all of them, so beautiful,
He could but give his best.
He aged, but just in some ways,
For, to women, he seemed young,
But husbands thought him reprobate
And farewells were quickly sung.
He wandered, barely stopping,
Always living on the edge,
But some woman always found him:
For every pit, he found a ledge.
It wasn't, though, because of fame
They sought him, oh, so much;
To him, they all were ladies
And he treated them as such.
Then, one day, he met someone
To remind him of one lost,
Of one test he could only fail
And what that failure cost:
"I never could forget
My Henriette."
Daughter led to mother:
Henriette, the maid he'd known
For him, he stood astonished:
How beautiful she'd grown!
She saw, now, what the secret was
That made the women throng;
It wasn't just the azure eyes
Nor arms so lean and strong.
He felt each woman beautiful,
From the bottom of his soul,
And, to such goddesses as these,
How could he keep control?
He worshiped at the temple
Known as "woman" to his heart,
And cherished every word they spoke,
Adored their every part,
Entranced by every laugh they sang,
The sparkle in each eye,
Their smiles, their skin, their gentle touch,
Their warm contented sighs.
'Twas true, though, Henriette he loved
Like none he'd ever known;
Each woman had her moment, though,
Upon his lofty throne.
He never was designing.
His regard was too sincere.
He loved her; could he help
That every woman he'd revere?
"Do you ever feel regret,
Sweet Henriette?"
"Goodbye, dear Casanova,"
Did she say before she left,
"I'll always always love you
Though, of love, you're not bereft."
He kissed her hand one final time,
Then watched her leave, at last,
The brightest light of all his stars,
That glimmer from the past.
Then, he grew old, as legend do,
'Til few recalled his name
And even less connected him
With his once mighty fame.
Women smiled now at his kindness
; And respected him for grey,
But didn't long to share his bed—
Ah, joys of yesterday!
But women can be worshipped
Just by watching how they smile,
By listening to their laughter,
Their flash, their joy, their style.
His love affair with all their race,
The most successful yet,
Well, though he'd not been rich or proud,
He had so few regrets.
No man had loved as he had
Nor been loved so in return,
And as he grows to deathly age,
One thought remains to burn:
"Could Casanova e'er forget
His own beloved Henriette?"
I admit, I liked the movie Lady Jane with Helena Bonham Carter and Cary Elwes. Not for the great historical accuracy (better than some, but whew, pretty romanticized) but for the romance that came out of a forced wedding. Yep, I fell for it and did my part by writing final letters for the tragic pair.
To Guildford
My darling dearest Guildford,
Truest prince in deed and heart,
And, oh, I'm so tormented
That, once more, we are apart.
The times we were together
Were so golden through your smile,
Your laughter and your vision
That helped mold our short-lived style.
Oh, darling, only I know
Of the depths inside you feel
For the homeless, for the hopeless
For the branded's bloody seal.
Who'd think that this debaucher
Dreamed to halt his father's greed,
Dreamed hills of silver shillings
And of times that poor won't bleed.
Dear Guildford, how I love you!
You're the strength we almost were,
The wisdom, shrewd—the lion,
So brave, so strong, so sure.
Although our ends are different
Could my heart know any pain?
For soon we'll stand together . . .
God, I love you . . .
Lady Jane
To Jane
Dear Jane, my heart's own darling,
I'm so sorry you shall die,
But I'll see you in the next life;
No one loves as much as I.
'Twas my prompting now that kills you
For I thought that times could change
If you held queenly power—
A dreamer's dreams are strange.
You had no way of knowing,
Oh so young, my Lady Jane,
With heart as pure as crystal
Unafraid of death or pain.
Now we, a nine days wonder,
Are to die; I should have known
That nobles don't love justice
If it steals aught from their own.
But, Jane, my little dreamer,
Who, forever, I'll soon join,
Whose greatest royal triumph
Was a tiny silver coin,
Jane, my dainty darling,
I'll be with you e'er again . . .
I sign myself your Guildford
For I love you, Lady Jane.
Another movie I enjoyed for reasons I'm not entirely sure I could articulate was Young Sherlock Holmes. Well, I do like to enjoy the Holmes' stories in general (and love BBC's recent series, though I wrote this long long ago) and I've always enjoyed Sherlock's eccentricity. I identify with it. But the movie I note here had a tragic undertone in the fleeting love story that really captured my interest. Like the last poem, this poem does one of my favorite things: plays with a point of view that intrigues me and give me a chance to imagine myself in those shoes.
Sherlock's Song
What others would not give
To own the skills that I possess:
An intelligence, unrivalled,
That longs to weigh, assess,
That find's each puzzle simple,
Each challenge just a game,
That led me to adventures,
To glory and to fame.
Yes, I'd been blessed with talents
Far beyond the common man
With all within my power—
Save one thing could I command.
The Gods who bless so lavishly,
They find ways to atone
And took my dear Elizabeth
To leave me here alone.
My skills were such that I could choose
Of any life to lead.
Professions all were free to me;
My mind blessed every seed,
But when asked my ambition,
I could give but one reply,
For but one dream can touch a man,
A man as blessed as I.
I wished that she be near me,
That she always grace my side,
And, though I didn't name her,
I meant her for my bride.
Surely, Gods, they knew this—
Are Gods' hearts carved of stone?
I meant her when I spoke then:
"To never be alone."
They knew. Gods love to torture
Those on whom Their gifts bestowed,
And showed me to my heaven
In those eyes that softly glowed.
Elizabeth, my soul-mate,
Her heart, my one desire,
Who loved me to my very depths
And set my soul on fire.
Perhaps if I had named her,
Dear ambition of my heart,
Would she still stand beside me
Or would we still love apart?
My soul grew warm with promise,
Then, in one second, joy had flown
For gone was my Elizabeth
And I was left alone.
They stole you, hurt you, killed you,
But left me here in pain,
With all my gifts but longing for
The one I can't regain.
My promise found fruition;
My fame grew far and wide.
And I found notoriety
With Watson at my side.
But Watson is a friend, not love,
And I grew, incomplete,
With Watson's mild companionship
And women at my feet—
Women, ha! They chased me
But found my heart as stone.
They could not match Elizabeth
And I remained alone.
My career has been so perfect.
I'm revered by all I know,
But all of that is nothing
Just a sad man's lonely show,
While waiting for a happiness
From death as yet unknown
When we will meet, Elizabeth,
And I won't be alone.
There's a certain irony in that, those movies I actually liked least or found least compelling often sparked some of my longest and most elaborate epics. In this case, I kid you not, Conan the Barbarian. As a teenager (high school), I was very disappointed that Conan could carry on without her. So, I "fixed" it.
Tanschel and Traig
Come close, minstrel, and listen;
I've a legend here to tell.
Then I'll want you to retell it
And you must retell it well.
There are many tales of heroes
Regaled to young and old;
My greater pair of heroes
Must so have their story told.
And, so, you must recite it
To, perhaps, instill a token,
To make a hero just like those
About whom you have spoken.
Write their song! Sing their deeds!
And maybe bloom a hero's seed.
In a world of thieves and brutes,
She was the thief of thieves.
She was most mighty at a time
When one who fights well lives.
They called Tanschel an Amazon,<
br />
A maid who knew her might,
And cutthroats made a path for her
For they knew how she could fight.
In hand to hand, her iron grip
Could send a man to Hell;
No man could use a knife as she
Nor send shafts half so well.
Her speedy dodge, her lightning strike,
Her sword a streak of sun,
And those who faced this warrior-maid
Were slain when she had done.
And, in her craft of thievery,
She had attained the height;
Silently, she'd in and out
With no one catching sight.
Tanschel, though, had no murderer's look
To match her ruthless ways.
Most thought her cursed, a demon
Hiding with an angel's face.
Her form was tall and slender;
She didn't look that strong,
But many an opponent died
Realizing he was wrong.
However, her agility
Was plain to every eye;
Her fighting and her sultry walk
Proclaimed her young and spry.
Her luscious form could tempt a saint
And make procurers drool
With thoughts of that appealing flesh
Underneath their rule.
Above this almost perfect form,
Floating fine and light,
A silky straight cascade of hair
Of the shade of golden-white.
The face beneath that honeyed frame,
That flowed down, shoulder-length,
Held beauty that drove grown men wild
And helped take away their strength.
Two soulful eyes held court in it,
Though they were often cold
To those who would come closer,
But few dared to be so bold.
Soft full lips of salmon pink,
Her teeth, so white and smooth,
Her angled cheeks caused fever
Her soft skin could not soothe.
One jewel only did she wear,
And never was apart,
For always hung around her neck
A priceless ruby heart.
And, so, she was the siren's song
With beauty's soft refrain,
But keeping all the men away
By means of death and pain.
One touch upon her beck'ning hair
Could cause a fellow's death;
An Amazon, she slept alone
And never shared her breath.
One day in the drinking house,
She walked her graceful glide
That with each smooth and flowing step
Revealed a milky thigh,
But, there in her favorite spot,
A man she did not know
And yet he made her skin grow hot
As she began to glow.
What had pricked her perfect skin,
Every nerve a-wrack?
Danger, could it be, or spells?
Or just a stranger's back?
This back, so broad to stun the mind,
And limbs of seasoned oak;
He'd shame a team of oxen
If they put him at the yoke.
Thick and oily chestnut hair
Laid on shoulders, best she'd seen,
But reason not enough it was
To make her senses keen.
Musings of a Nascent Poet Page 4