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La Maitresse

By the Convent of St. Mary
In the town of La Rochelle,
I would sit there, patient, waiting
'Til I heard the chapel bell,
Then I'd climb up on the ivy
That was clinging to the wall,
Hang on tight and peer on over
Breathless, hoping not to fall!

I was just a young subaltern
In the army of the crown,
Sent to seize all those heretics
Who sought refuge in the town,
And the daughters of those nobles
Who refused the marriage vow
When required to marry Catholics -
I had to hunt them down.

Then these girls were bound and taken
To the convent, where they lay,
Forced to take up holy orders
And then locked in cells away,
They'd be held 'til they recanted
And embraced the Holy See,
If these Protestants resisted
Then they'd have to deal with me!

So it was I met the woman
Who entranced me with her eyes,
She had such a sweet demeanor,
She had seemed so calm and wise,
But she said that she had trusted
In the Lord, his saving grace,
And abjured the Pope, his function,
To recant would mean disgrace.

Then I'd see her in her habit
Being led to Holy Mass,
They had bound her wrists together
They had chained her at the waist,
And the only time I saw her
When they led her from her cell,
Was when peering from the ivy
As they rang the chapel bell.

As a soldier then, my duty
Was to do as I was told,
But I cared for no religion
As I cared for Ann Moreau,
For her humble disposition, it
Had softened up my heart,
And the more I saw her suffer there,
The more I fell apart.

I knew the Father Grandier
Who ruled this den of Nuns,
His word was law within those halls,
His forté, arrogance!
He'd tour the cells, both day and night
And make them kneel, and pray!
The lime-pit by the chapel burned
The evidence away!

For months I spied on Ann Moreau,
Who hung her head in shame,
She had no-one to listen to her pleas,
No-one to blame.
I saw her swell with child as she
Was dragged by chain to Mass,
And there were times she faltered,
And she fell there, on the grass.

My heart, it almost burst in grief,
For Grandier was the man,
Each Nun had carried to full term
This rake's own contraband,
Each tiny corpse was set in lime,
Each Nun locked in her cell,
Until she'd sworn her penitence
Before this rake from hell.

In port there was an English ship,
The Captain craved for gold,
He'd long been known to carry folk
To freedom, in his hold,
He wanted fifty Louis
All I'd saved in seven years,
My love was brimming over
So I purchased her a berth.

At night I scaled the ivied wall,
Sought out her tiny cell,
The Abbess saw me wandering
And thought to ring her bell,
I quietened and I bribed her then,
I'd free her of the man
Who'd made her life a living hell,
I knew she'd understand!

She opened up the iron door
And called to Ann Moreau,
'You must be quick, you have a friend
Who wants to let you go! '
She struggled through the doorway
And she laughed in her surprise,
And my love settled deeply
In the pain around her eyes.

We made it to the ship within
An hour of hoisting sail,
So I hid her in a stowage, in
The bows, beneath a bale,
Then I bid her travel safely and
I walked back to the deck,
When a voice said: 'You'll look pretty
With a rope around your neck! '

It was Grandier, the Pastor
With the Abbess by his side,
He had threatened her with
Excommunication if she lied.
'So you'd better take me to her,
She's my mistress, as you know,
It would be a Christian folly
If I let my charges go! '

I shrugged, and led him to the hold,
It wasn't very deep,
'You'll have to crawl along the back,
She's probably asleep.'
He got into the hold and crawled
Between the bales and deck,
I nodded to the Abbess who
Stood silently, and wept.

A party of Dragoons rode up,
'To search the ship, ' they said,
'We hear a Protestant's aboard,
Stand back, or lose your head! '
I pointed to the stern, and said:
He's down there, getting cold! '
They drew their swords and thrust them
Through the planking to the hold.

We heard a shriek, then silence,
And a sword was dripping blood,
They dragged the body out, and cursed,
Then tossed it in the mud,
'Another cheats the hangman, let him rot, '
The Colonel said,
'It's enough he's a heretic,
Well he was... but now he's dead! '

I never saw my Ann again,
They sailed upon the tide,
I heard the ship had foundered
Off the beachhead, next to Hythe,
And every soul but one was lost...
I'd give my life to know,
Just who was washed ashore alive,
My guess is, Ann Moreau.

I'm just a young subaltern
In the army of the crown,
And still seize those heretics who
Seek refuge in the town,
I'm busy hanging protestants
Who won't recant, or fold,
But then, I'm just a soldier and
I do as I am told!

5 February 2010

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Monster & Captain Kreel

We were out in the North Atlantic
When the storm began to blow,
We reefed in the tops and gallants so
We wouldn't end down below,
The ship was tossed in a fury,
The mate was strapped to the wheel,
There wasn't a dry man left aboard,
Not even Captain Kreel.

The Captain, he was a bully,
He would flog 'til his arm was sore,
He drove the men at their stations 'til
They couldn't have taken more,
He kept a rope at the yardarm,
A warning to every man,
His word was not to be questioned if
A tar didn't want to hang!

Each wave was a liquid mountain
That crashed on the after deck,
The wind was a screaming banshee that
Would threaten, despair and wreck,
When out from below there came a scream,
A woman, so fair of face,
But the Captain swore an ugly oath
That the ship was in disgrace!

The wife of an able seaman,
He'd smuggled the girl aboard,
He'd thought he could keep her hidden there
Until they went ashore,
But the men with their superstitions
Then blamed her for the storm,
They seized her, dragged to the gunnels
And would hurry her overboard!

The Captain barked out an order,
The jack tars staggered back,
They wouldn't defy their Captain if
The ship was under attack!
The mate then seized the woman
And bared her at the breast,
Turned her to face the heaving sea
As she stood there, half undressed.

Bare breasted, like the figurehead
They carried on the prow,
A woman was known to calm the seas
If she shamed its gods somehow,
The wind died down in the stays and yards
And the sea died down as well,
But she little knew as she covered up
She approached the gates of hell!

The seaman was court-martialled,
Up there, on the quarter deck,
Where the Captain gave no quarter,
It was keel haul, or his neck!
They tied the rope around his chest
And flung him overboard,
We heaved on the rope, and prayed he'd hold
His breath 'til he came aboard.

We dragged him under the water,
And felt him under the keel,
The rope was a little bit lighter
Than the brow of Captain Kreel,
For he was a livid monster
Who just wanted the seaman dead,
His plans for the wife were plain to see
As he sent her to his bed!

The seaman's body surfaced,
It wasn't going well,
We hauled him over the side of the ship
'Til we caught a glimpse of hell,
The rope was knotted about his chest
And twisted around his neck,
There was nothing at all below the waist,
As his entrails sprayed the deck!

Even the Captain blanched at this
But he motioned us away,
'Toss the remains all overboard
Then swab the decks - Belay! '
We wondered how Jones was cut in half,
It couldn't have been the keel,
But kept our mutterings to ourselves,
For fear of the monster, Kreel.

Out on the starboard side we saw
A giant head appear,
Just as the body hit the waves
It reared, and sniffed the air,
Then pounced on the human morsel,
Picked it up in its savage jaw,
As we shrank on back at its evil eye
It gave out a primitive roar.

There wasn't a moment from then on
We weren't all chilled inside,
The monster followed and circled us
As we rode the heaving tide,
It must have been eighty feet or more,
A great, carnivorous beast,
The serpent had tasted human flesh
And we were a human feast!

The wind had dropped, the sails were limp,
We couldn't sail for home,
We were caught in the theme of a nightmare dream
Where the beasts of the world could roam,
The Captain kept to his cabin then,
We could hear the woman plead,
With a monster within, a monster without
We were caught in a monstrous creed.

'It's all the fault of that woman there! '
I knew what the ratings thought,
'We need to be throwing her overboard
To escape the luck she brought! '
The mate came down and roused them out,
'There'll be no talk of this,
We have to get under sail tonight
When the wind begins to rise.'

The Captain showed on the quarter-deck
Just after the seventh bell,
The sun was down in the west, the moon
Was riding high, as well.
We raised the sails as the shadows loomed,
Unfurled topgallant stays,
I was watching the Captain against the moon
His back to the after rail.

The serpent's head loomed large above
The figure of Captain Kreel,
The hairs rose up on the back of my neck
As I watched the shadows steal.
It opened up with its mighty jaw
Clamped down on the Captain's head,
Lifted him clear of the quarter deck
As he screamed - 'Oh God! I'm dead! '

We never saw Captain Kreel again,
But nobody seemed to care,
We sailed for the Falkland Islands then,
And we left the woman there,
I heard she married again, sometime,
To a sailor known as Kip,
And dreams of her home in Pompey, but -
They won't let her onto a ship!

24 December 2009

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Aboard At A Ship's Helm

ABOARD, at a ship's helm,
A young steersman, steering with care.

A bell through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,
An ocean-bell--O a warning bell, rock'd by the waves.

O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,
Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place.

For, as on the alert, O steersman, you mind the bell's admonition,
The bows turn,--the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away under her
gray sails,
The beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds
away gaily and safe.

But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship! 10
O ship of the body--ship of the soul--voyaging, voyaging, voyaging.

poem by Walt Whitman
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O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Ballad Of Rose Red

Rose Red was the name they gave her
because of her flaming hair.
She grew up in a time of turmoil
where children were taken from their beds.
When her only son was stolen and butchered,
something snapped within her head.
She turned her attention to the seas
and pirates life she led.

With cutlass and pistol,
her wrath swathed through the Spanish Main.
A price as big as her rivals
was placed upon her head,
but no one was fool enough to collect it
fearing the wrath of Rose Red.
Her mighty ship the Dragon Queen
sailed without hindrance and impunity.

Treasures of captured ships lined
the Dragon Queen’s hold,
then back to her island home
was the course she chartered
for where her other treasures
lie buried there somewhere.
This secret was only hers
because she alone buried it there.

Anyone who saw where
never lived to tell the tale.
She was savage with her wrath
as she sought out the murderers
of her only son.
Year after year, she sought them down
whether on land or at sea
with her lasting vengeance.

One by one, the murderers fell
from those who had committed it
to those from which their orders fell.
Rose Red gave them their appointment
with the devil they served.
Fear ran among them
of this woman with flaming hair
who struck without warning.

She rode the seas for years
pillaging the greedy as her victims fell.
Now only one remained,
the highest of them all
and the most guarded as well.
He being the King of Spain,
but Rose Red was not
afraid of his army or him.

Into port she sailed one night
guns firing from fore to aft
until no ship was left afloat.
The guns then turned on the town
crumbling each building in turn
until only the palace was left standing.
Then into town, they went
with only one prize to seek.

The palace stood untouched
no holes within its walls
as the pirates strode against it.
First through the main gate
leaving no one left alive
except for the slaves.
Whose freedom they gave
until the king was cornered.

He stood among his treasures
to defend them with his might.
Rose Red strode into the chamber
to face his cowering body
pleading for mercy to be.
She looked at the coward
and lifting her pistol to finish
what had to be done.

The shot echoed in the chamber
and the body slumped down
no more would anyone loose their children
to this wicked crooked crown.
The king was dead and the evil hordes he had sown
where now facing what they gave to others
a hole in the ground.

The treasures were left along with the crown
Rose Red’s vengeance was now complete.
Back to the ship, they strode
sailing out to the oceans free.
No longer did they have
a bounty on their heads
now the king was dead.
They were free to do now as they pleased.

4 September 2011

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Little Girl's Song

Do not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking with fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is bideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?

Somebody else that you love, Papa,
Somebody else that you dearly love
Is weary, like me, because you're away.
Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move,
And I seem to know what they're going to say;
And every day, and all the long day,
I long to cry, 'Oh Mamma, Mamma,
When will Papa come back again?'
But before I can say it I see the pain
Creeping up on her white white cheek,
As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the white wall,
And then I am sorry, and fear to speak;
And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek,
As the sad sweet sunshine goes from the wall.
Oh, I wish I were grown up wise and tall,
That I might throw my arms round her neck
And say, 'Dear Mamma, oh, what is it all
That I see and see and do not see
In your white white face all the livelong day?'
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?

Where were you going, Papa, Papa?
All this long while have you been on the sea?
When she looks as if she saw far away,
Is she thinking of you, and what does she see?
Are the white sails blowing,
And the blue men rowing,
And are you standing on the high deck
Where we saw you stand till the ship grew gray,
And we watched and watched till the ship was a speck,
And the dark came first to you, far away?
I wish I could see what she can see,
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?

Don't you remember, Papa, Papa,
How we used to sit by the fire, all three,
And she told me tales while I sat on her knee,
And heard the winter winds roar down the street,
And knock like men at the window pane,
And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet
To be warm and warm as we used to be,
Sitting at night by the fire, all three?
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?

Papa, I like to sit by the fire;
Why does she sit far away in the cold?
If I had but somebody wise and old,
That every day I might cry and say,
'Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget?
Was she always as white as she is to-day?
Did she never carry her head up higher?'
Papa, Papa, if I could but know!
Do you think her voice was always so low?
Did I always see what I seem to see
When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet?
You used to say her hair it was gold-
It looks like silver to me.
But still she tells the same tale that she told,
She sings the same songs when I sit on her knee,
And the house goes on as it went long ago,
When we lived together, all three.
Sometimes my heart seems to sink, Papa,
And I feel as if I could be happy no more.
Is she changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream she was brighter before?
She makes me remember my snowdrop, Papa,
That I forgot in thinking of you,
The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew!
But I put it out of the sun and the rain:
It was green and white when I put it away,
It had one sweet bell and green leaves four;
It was green and white when I found it that day,
It had one pale bell and green leaves four,
But I was not glad of it any more.
Was it changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream it was brighter before?

Do not mind my crying, Papa,
I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa,
I am not shaking for fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is hideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Dress-Maker

A CLOISTERED nun had a lover
Dwelling in the neighb'ring town;
Both racked their brains to discover
How they best their love might crown.
The swain to pass the convent-door!--
No easy matter!--Thus they swore,
And wished it light.--I ne'er knew a nun
In such a pass to be outdone:--
In woman's clothes the youth must dress,
And gain admission. I confess
The ruse has oft been tried before,
But it succeeded as of yore.
Together in a close barred cell
The lovers were, and sewed all day,
Nor heeded how time flew away.--
"What's that I hear? Refection bell!
"'Tis time to part. Adieu!--Farewell!--
"How's this?" exclaimed the abbess, "why
"The last at table?"--"Madam, I
"Have had my dress-maker."--"The rent
"On which you've both been so intent
"Is hard to stop, for the whole day
"To sew and mend, you made her stay;
"Much work indeed you've had to do!
"--Madam, 't would last the whole night through,
"When in our task we find enjoyment
"There is no end of the employment."

poem by La Fontaine
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The Psalter

ONCE more permit me, nuns, and this the last;
I can't resist, whatever may have passed,
But must relate, what often I've been told;
Your tales of convent pranks are seldom cold;
They have a grace that no where else we find,
And, somehow, better seem to please designed.
Another then we'll have, which three will make:--
Three did I say?-'tis four, or I mistake;
Let's count them well:-The GARD'NER first, we'll name;
Then comes the ABBESS, whose declining frame
Required a youth, her malady to cure
A story thought, perhaps, not over pure;
And, as to SISTER JANE, who'd got a brat,
I cannot fancy we should alter that.
These are the whole, and four's a number round;
You'll probably remark, 'tis strange I've found
Such pleasure in detailing convent scenes:--
'Tis not my whim, but TASTE, that thither leans:
And, if you'd kept your breviary in view,
'Tis clear, you'd nothing had with this to do;
We know, howe'er, 'tis not your fondest care;
So, quickly to our hist'ry let's repair.

A CHARMING youth would frequent visits pay,
To nuns, whose convent near his dwelling lay;
And, 'mong the sisters, one his person saw,
Who, by her eyes, would fain attention draw;
Smiles she bestowed, and other complaisance,
But not a single step would he advance;
By old and young he greatly was admired;
Sighs burst around, but none his bosom fired.
Fair Isabella solely got his love,
A beauteous nun, and gentle as a dove,
Till then a novice in the flow'ry chain,
And envied doubly:--for her charms and swain.
Their soft amours were watched with eagle-eye:
No pleasure's free from care you may rely;
In life each comfort coupled is with ill,
And this to alter baffles all our skill.

THE sister nuns so vigilant had been,
One night when darkness overspread the scene;
And all was proper mysteries to hide,
Some words escaped her cell that doubts supplied,
And other matters too were heard around,
That in her breviary could not be found.
'Tis her gallant! said they: he's clearly caught;
Alarm pervaded; swarms were quickly brought;
Rage seemed to triumph; sentinels were placed;
The abbess too must know they were disgraced.
Away they hastened to convey surprise,
And, thund'ring at her door, cried, madam rise,
For sister Isabella, in her cell,
Has got a man, which surely can't be well.

YOU will observe, the dame was not at prayer,
Nor yet absorbed in sleep, devoid of care,
But with her then, this abbess had in bed
Good parson John, by kindness thither led,
A neighb'ring rector, confessor, and friend;
She rose in haste the sisters to attend,
And, seeking for her veil, with sense confused,
The parson's breeches took for what she used,
Which, in the dark, resembled what was worn
By nuns for veils, and called (perhaps in scorn),
Among themselves, their PSALTER, to express
Familiarly, a common, awkward dress.

WITH this new ornament, by way of veil,
She sallied forth and heard the woeful tale.
Then, irritated, she exclaimed with ire
To see this wretched creature I desire,
The devil's daughter, from her bold career,
Who'll bring our convent to disgrace, I fear;
But God forbid, I say, and with his leave,
We'll all restore:--rebuke she shall receive.
A chapter we will call:--the sisters came,
And stood around to hear their pious dame.

FAIR Isabella now the abbess sent,
Who straight obeyed, and to her tears gave vent,
Which overspread those lily cheeks and eyes,
A roguish youth so lately held his prize.
What! said the abbess: pretty scandal here,
When in the house of God such things appear;
Ashamed to death you ought to be, no doubt,
Who brought you thither?--such we always scout.

NOW Isabella, (--sister you must lose,
Henceforth, that name to you we cannot use;
The honour is too great,) in such a case,
Pray are you sensible of your disgrace,
And what's the punishment you'll undergo?
Before to-morrow, this you'll fully know;
Our institution chastisement decrees;
Come speak, I say, we'll hear you if you please.

POOR Isabella, with her sight on ground,
Confused, till then had scarcely looked around,
Now raised her eyes, and luckily perceived
The breeches, which her fears in part relieved,
And that the sisters, by surprise unnerved,
As oft's the case, had never once observed.
She courage took, and to the abbess said,
There's something from the Psalter, on your head,
That awkwardly hangs down; pray, madam, try
To put it right, or 'twill be in your eye.

'TWAS knee-strings, worn, at times, by priests and beaux,
For, more or less, all follow fashion's laws.
This veil, no doubt, had very much the air
Of those unmentionables parsons wear;
And this the nun, to frolicking inclined,
It seems had well impressed upon her mind.
What, cried the abbess, dares she still to sneer?
How great her insolence to laugh and jeer,
When sins so heavily upon her rest,
And ev'ry thing remains quite unconfessed.
Upon my word, she'd be a saint decreed;
My veil, young imp, your notice cannot need;
'Tis better think, you little hellish crow,
What pains your soul must undergo below.

THE mother abbess sermonized and fired,
And seemed as if her tongue would ne'er be tired.
Again the culprit said, your Psalter, pray,
Good madam, haste to set the proper way;
On which the sisters looked, both young and old
THOSE 'gan to laugh, while THESE were heard to scold.

OUR preacher, quite ashamed of what she'd done,
Now lost her voice, and noticed not the nun;
The murmur buzzed around, too well expressed,
What thoughts the holy sisterhood possessed.
At length the abbess said:--we've now not time
To take the chapter's votes upon her crime;
'Twould make it late; let each to bed return,
And, till to-morrow, we'll the case adjourn.
No chapter met, howe'er, when morrow came;
Another day arrived, and still the same;
The sages of the convent thought it best,
In fact, to let the mystick business rest.
Much noise, perhaps, would hurt religion's cause,
And, that considered, prudent 'twere to pause.
Base envy made them Isabella hate,
And dark suspicions to the abbess state.
In short, unable by their schemes to get
The morsel she'd so fortunately met,
Each nun exerted all her art to find,
What equally might satisfy the mind.
Old friends were willingly received again;
Her gallant our belle was suffered to retain;
The rector and the abbess had their will;
And, such their union, precepts to fulfill,
That if a nun had none to give her bliss,
To lend a friend was nothing thought amiss.

poem by La Fontaine
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The Forsaken

Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come
from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such
far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused.
I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause!

Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear
be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped
it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame,
just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did,
and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die?

That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not
be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry.
Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child
alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face
the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled
for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did.
Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me!

I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me 'whore',
and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have
the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman,
he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart,
what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin,
Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman
must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing.
I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign.
What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never
feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have.
Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby!

He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good
a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school
in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve,
so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois,
out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things,
I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy,
I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful,
take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came.
No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months.
To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother.
She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born
for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away!
Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it!

And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl.
Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known
my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body,
and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above,
and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man,
I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another.
I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms!

So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart
where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be
quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me.
What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues
when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby,
when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me,
his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making,
and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels
to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings?
I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem
just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother.
He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him,
but give me strength to bring him up to be a man.

poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Strip Jack!

We'd been caught out in the yacht that day,
A storm blew up in the lee,
The clouds had gathered at four o'clock
In the wake of a rising sea,
'It's looking grim, ' I had said to her
As we spun the bows around,
And headed in to the distant shore
As the first of the rain came down.

The sun went in and the sky was black
As I reefed the sail in short,
While Linda pulled in the spinnaker,
And clung to the rail's support,
She made her way to the cabin then
As my phone began to ring,
I heard, 'It's done! ' and my mind went numb,
It was time to do my thing!

She stood with her back toward me as
I lunged with the marlin spike,
She dropped like a faded butterfly
In search of its last midnight,
I dragged her out to the afterdeck
And bound her up in the chain,
Then sent her down with the anchor where
She never would wake again!

I cast off the anchor chain and then
I retched all over the deck,
It had to be done, I told myself,
And I thought of her cousin, Beck,
She'd done the deed we'd agreed upon,
Had seen off her husband, Ben,
So Beck would be mine to have and hold
As I'd dreamed and I'd schemed, back when.

We'd always been close, the four of us,
Had holidayed in the snow,
We'd sat in a dark secluded bar
In the aftermath of a show,
We'd played Strip Jack in the garden 'til
The women were stripped to the waist,
Then each of us swapped, and went to bed,
And woke to a different face!

We thought we could get away with it,
Old friends, just casual sex,
We'd been together so long, we had
No clue what would happen next,
I thought that Linda was furtive,
Making eyes at Ben in the dark,
And I was caught in a whisper then,
With Beck in our local park.

Then Ben and I found the silences
Embarrassing, hard to bear,
Where once we'd laughed and we'd joked
That camaraderie wasn't there,
Then Beck had told me he'd soured on her,
And Linda, too, went strange,
So when we swapped, we schemed and planned
With our partners out of range.

'I think he's planning to murder me, '
Said Beck, on a tearful night,
When she curled up tight in the sheets and cried,
And seemed in an awful plight,
'I wonder what they're planning now, '
She said, in the early dawn,
Then I thought of Linda's silences,
And Ben, and I felt forlorn.

Then Beck had told me she loved me so,
And drove me out of my mind,
I knew that I'd do most anything
For the wife of my former friend,
She said one day that she had a plan,
To rid herself of Ben,
'But you must do what you have to do
When I phone, and tell you when! '

I tied the yacht to the outer Quay
Drove homeward, just as we'd planned,
I thought to report the following day
That she'd left for another man,
But when I opened the old front door
I saw them sitting there,
Both Ben, alive, in the dining room,
And Beck with a frightened stare!

'Where's Linda, ' Ben was the first to speak,
And I just froze - he knew!
But Beck said, 'I tried phoning her,
I thought she was with you.'
And then she showed me the frosted cake
She'd worked on all day through,
'It's for your anniversary,
She'd planned a surprise for you! '

I pulled the cell phone out, and stared,
The phone had been my wife's,
My own I'd left in the den downstairs,
That message cost her life.
'It's done! ' meant the anniversary cake,
I hadn't said a word,
Now Ben looked long and hard at me,
'Where's Linda? ' - then he stared!

I said that she must be out somewhere,
Then opened a cask of wine,
Sat back, as Ben filled the tumblers full
I knew, for the final time.
'Here's to your anniversary, '
He said, as we drank the toast,
And I thought I could see by the window there
The shape of my Linda's ghost.

But Beck had choked on the wine, and gasped,
Her mouth a purple hue,
She stared and sighed in a faint surprise
As the truth came into view.
'She's dead, my friend, did you think I'd lend
My wife for the sake of yours?
I knew the play and it ends today,
Where's Linda - Dead? Of course! '

There wasn't another word to say,
We sat and drank in the dark,
With Beck spread over the table like
Some rag doll, left in the park.
I read the anniversary card
That Linda had left for me:
'To the only man I have ever loved...
On our anniversary! '

14 February 2010

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Grail

In the village Bellastrino
On the craggy Tuscan hills,
Lies an old abandoned Abbey
And the Church of San Michele,
Though the village was abandoned
There are two who would not go,
The Abbot, Father Grandier,
The Priest, Don Angelo.

The Abbey on the mountain top,
The Church down in the dell,
They'd fought, these two, for twenty years
Consigning each to Hell!
For in the Church of San Michele
Before the village failed,
Down in the crypt, beneath the floor
They'd found the Holy Grail.

A bowl, fine wrought in pale green glass,
There's no room for debate,
The Templar Knights had left it in
Eleven eighty-eight,
They'd always said they would return,
In fact, they never did,
They went to challenge Saladin
And died, as they had lived!

‘It's mine, ' said Father Grandier,
‘Not so, ' said Angelo,
‘I found it and I'm keeping it,
Here, in the Church below.'
‘It should be in the Abbey, '
Father Grandier opined,
‘Its glory on the mountain top…'
‘Not so! The Grail is mine! '

For years the two had tussled
Had approached the Holy See,
The Pope thought it ridiculous
And said: ‘Don't bother me!
We have two dozen of those things,
A heap of rusty nails,
All from the Cross at Calvary
But these are peasant tales.'

A Cardinal then came to call
And tried to sort them out,
Well practiced in diplomacy
He said: ‘No need to shout!
You have a choir each, ' he said
‘Who visit in the spring,
So hold a competition here,
What better way, than sing? '

‘The better choir shall win the Grail
And keep it for a year,
Up in the Abbey's mountain top,
Or down here, if you dare.
Then sing for it each passing year,
Three judges, understood?
If one should win it three years straight
They keep the Grail for good! '

With many muttered mumblings
And hellfire in their eyes,
The Abbot and the priest said yes,
Dissembled with their lies,
They each set out to cheat their way
To keep that Holy Grail,
The Abbot got to pick each judge
He thought he couldn't fail!

The Abbey won the first two years
And held the Grail on high,
While poor Don Angelo despaired,
The time was coming nigh;
They had to sing for it once more,
He knew that if he failed,
The Abbot would, victorious,
Not let him keep the Grail.

Don Angelo went down to Rome
And brought a tenor back,
His voice like rich red Tuscan wine
To join his choir's attack,
They sang their hearts out on the day
But saw the judges feign,
And shake their heads, Don Angelo
Had nothing left to gain.

The judge stood up to name the prize,
The Abbot had his way,
The tenor stood and sang a note
Not heard since Jesu's day,
He held it long, unwavering
The Grail began to ring,
A long high-pitched reverberance,
The Grail began to sing.

A minute there, without a breath
The tenor held his tone,
And Grandier stood up, alarmed,
Let out a fervid moan,
The Grail sang on, then shattered
Fell in pieces to the floor,
The judge stood up and shook his head,
Then said - ‘The sing's a draw! '

The Abbey holds the base of it,
Up on the mountain top,
All glued together, like some vase
Bought in the Red Cross Shop.
While down there in the little Church
On a thousand Euro tips,
They're coining them a fortune with
The rim that touched his lips!

1 September 2012

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Foster Mother's Tale. A Dramatic Fragment

Ter. But that entrance, Selma?
Sel. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!
Ter. No one.
Sel. My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Sesina -- angels rest his soul;
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapped in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost,
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but nost unteachable--
And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself.
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,
A gray-haired man, he loved this little boy:
The boy loved him, and, when the Friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
So he became a rare and learned youth:
But O! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turned; and ere his twentieth year
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together chained in deep discourse,
The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened!
A fever seized him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgement: so the youth was seized
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobbed like a child -- it almost broke his heart:
And once as he was working near this dungeon,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described,
And the young man escaped.
Ter. 'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?
Sel. He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers who made discovery
Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain,
He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,
And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed,
He lived and died among the savage men.

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thy Will Be Done!

I always thought that Jean La Mare was strange,
Gave me the creeps,
With lank, uncared for russet hair
And eyes with depths and deeps,
She hung her head when walking by
Wore dresses to her shins,
She had no friends at school, at lunch
Sat by the rubbish bins.

Her father was the picture of a
Martinet of old,
Bolt upright, at attention he
Would rant at her, and scold.
An Army Colonel, long retired
His wife dead in the ground,
His thoughts for bringing daughters up
Were ancient, and profound.

She dared not answer back, nor baulk
At anything he said,
He kept her close, so close we thought
That she slept in his bed.
We never saw her out of school
She cooked and cleaned and swept,
When asked if she'd be at the Ball,
She turned away, and wept.

Time passed, and we had left the school,
Got on with living life,
I met someone, and pretty soon
Had caught myself a wife,
But my old friend from schooldays
Richard Carson, lived alone,
He said he'd not met anyone
Who thrilled him to the bone.

We'd all turned just on thirty when
He dropped the big surprise,
He said that he'd asked Jean La Mare!
I answered, 'Is that wise? '
It seems the Martinet had died,
Was safely in his box,
So Jean was free, and so was he
To tie the wedding knots.

I saw her at the wedding there,
The first time then for years,
I saw her laugh for once, she laughed
So much, it came to tears.
They seemed so happy in that church,
Her burden dead and gone,
But Richard told me later of
Her curse - 'Thy Will Be Done! '

For every evening of her life
She'd get down on her knees,
Before a varnished wooden box
And pray that she had pleased!
The box stood on the mantelpiece
And Richard dared not ask
Just what was in that box; he thought
It was her father's ash!

She'd pray and ask for guidance, then
She'd listen in the gloom,
He never heard a murmur but, she did,
Before that tomb!
She'd answer statements no-one made,
Would wail, then plead, implore,
While Richard stayed away and hid,
Stood listening by the door!

He asked her what her father said
When he'd approached him once,
The old man turned and marched away,
He'd felt quite like a dunce!
He'd asked if he could take her out,
The Colonel stood and glared:
'If you should even speak to her, young man,
I'll see you dead! '

But Jean had blushed and looked away,
And wouldn't answer then,
She muttered: 'He just didn't want me
Mixing with young men! '
But then she started acting strange,
Would slyly look away,
Whenever he came in the room
As she was going to pray.

He came to see me, looking ill,
He said he was unwell,
That Jean was getting stranger by the day
His life was hell!
She'd served him up a meal that made
Him sick, perspire and weak,
I told him he should get away...
He found it hard to speak!

I didn't want to interfere
But things were looking grim,
I went around to see them, well, not her,
I cared for him.
She flashed a look of hate at me,
Unbridled, undisguised,
She looked like some fanatic with
Grey analytic eyes.

She left us then to talk, and I
Saw on the mantelpiece,
The box that he'd described to me,
I said, 'Just call the Police! '
I'd flipped the clasp, the front swung down
It opened up to dread,
For staring at us both, we saw
His eyeless, staring head!

Then Jean came back, let out a scream,
Attacked me with a knife,
I caught her wrist, said: 'Richard,
Just restrain your crazy wife! '
She fell down on her knees and cried:
'I tried to be a son! '
Then listened, as if hearing it,
Then said, 'Thy will be done! '

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nagasaki mon amour

Nagasaki Mon Amour

There are moments when things become clear. A night, the Pacific Ocean was,
as its name, calm; I sat on deck and listened to the heartbeat of the ship,
which seemed to beat faster when one of the engineers opened the door and
came out on deck. I heard laughter from the mess-room they were playing
cards but I knew I would never be one of them, I had tried, the swagger and
the misogyny, living in a world where women were either whores or mothers.
The ship was bound for Nagasaki, which for the young crew meant little, but
I had been here before and visited a graveyard where Portuguese sailors had
died long time ago when Japan was an unknown land. At sixty I was a relic
and accepted that. Berthed. Walking down the gangway, I didn’t bother to look
back, didn’t shake anyone’s hand- it was dinner time anyway. Before flying back
to Europe I tried to find the Portuguese cemetery, it wasn’t there anymore;
another relic gone.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Silver Box

Old tales of valour fire our blood
But this, the bravest deed I know
Is written of our modern times,
No myth of long ago.

It was a convent grim and grey,
Whose vine-clad balconies looked down
On stately old Colonial homes
Of a fair Southern town.

And daughters of those grand old homes
Dwelt, humble Nuns, within its shade,
Serving their Lord with zealous hearts,
Joyous and unafraid.

From the dear Rectress, staid and old
To the small novice whose sweet eyes
Held the soft blue of Mary’s cloak
Or flowers of Paradise.

Peaceful and holy ran their lives
Hallowed by sacrifice and prayer,
Until one summer day did come
A fateful message there.

A letter from a brave young Priest,
The Rectress’ nephew, who, long while
Had toiled alone ‘mid leper folk
In a West Indian Isle.

The horrors of that festering hell
He told Ah! There were women there
Deep sunk in suffering and in sin
Who needed women’s care.

The good Nun read with blanching face,
And well her wisdom could divine
The cry for help he dared not ask
The breathed in every line.

She could not bid her daughters loved
Such awful sacrifice to make;
But should one feel impelled to give
Her life, for Jesus sake,

“I’ll place.” She said. “this silver box,
Before the chapel alter where
Such one may place her name therein
In quiet and secret there.”

The convent was a silent place
For all that long, long summer day,
Though in the garden old, the bees
Hummed round nasturtiums gay.

But tasks were done and prayers were said
In thoughtful silence, faithfully
The merry little novice e’en,
Went slowly and solemnly.

A thing of fate, the little box
Lay bright upon the alter stair,
The silver lamp before Our Lord
Shone on it sparkling there.

Next morn they waited after Mass
To hear the chaplain grave proclaim
On opening the casket there
If it held any name.

And in the rear a little group
Off anxious fathers, mothers pale,
Who knew the story of the box
Waited to hear the tale.

Oh! Wondrous faith of Peter’s fold
That can such fruitage bear-
The little box was very full
No name was missing there.

From the dear Rectress staid and old
To the small novice, who bright eyes
Mirrored the blue of Mary’s cloak
Of flowers of Paradise.

poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The Three Bells

BENEATH the low-hung night cloud
That raked her splintering mast
The good ship settled slowly,
The cruel leak gained fast.

Over the awful ocean
Her signal guns pealed out.
Dear God! was that Thy answer
From the horror round about?

A voice came down the wild wind,
'Ho! ship ahoy!' its cry
'Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow
Shall lay till daylight by!'

Hour after hour crept slowly,
Yet on the heaving swells
Tossed up and down the ship-lights,
The lights of the Three Bells!

And ship to ship made signals,
Man answered back to man,
While oft, to cheer and hearten,
The Three Bells nearer ran;

And the captain from her taffrail
Sent down his hopeful cry
'Take heart! Hold on!' he shouted;
'The Three Bells shall lay by!'

All night across the waters
The tossing lights shone clear;
All night from reeling taffrail
The Three Bells sent her cheer.

And when the dreary watches
Of storm and darkness passed,
Just as the wreck lurched under,
All souls were saved at last.

Sail on, Three Bells, forever,
In grateful memory sail!
Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,
Above the wave and gale!

Type of the Love eternal,
Repeat the Master's cry,
As tossing through our darkness
The lights of God draw nigh!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Guardian Angels

A Ballad

Father John in the green lane went
And he drew his robe full tight,
'I would,' quoth he, 'I were home again
For there's evil in the night.
'I would,' quoth he, 'the gold I bear
Were safe with the poor and old,
For strange the fear that follows me
That my eyes cannot behold.'
He looked him left and there he saw
A white rose climb and cling,
He looked him right and in the brake
A wild bird shook his wing.
He looked him back and far there stood
The old church tall and dim,
Yet on the lonely path there came
A terror strange to him.

Without the shadow of the trees
That bent above his way,
Where lost the moon her silver light,
He stood at last at bay.
And on his gown, from his pale brow
Fell great tears of his fright;
His shaking hands held close the gold
Wrapped in its cloth so white.
He knelt him down upon his knee
And prayed the Lord to hear,
'Christ, loosen Thou these laggard feet
That hold me slow in fear.
'Oh, strengthen Thou this childish heart
That trembles all afraid,
In pity for the calling sick
Who die without my aid.
'And let me bring all safely through
The shadows of the night,
The gold I bear for old and poor,
Still Thou this strange affright.'

And as he prayed from off his heart
Fear's clutching fingers fell,
A holy joy grew in his heart
He knew that all was well.
He turned him left and stayed to take
A white rose from her tree,
He turned him right and lilted low
A wild bird melody.
He looked him back and smiling saw
The tall church guarding him,
And then all fearless laughing sped
Through shadows strange and dim.

When but a year had passed away
There came before his gate,
A dying man who 'Succour,' cried
'Before it be too late.'
'Oh, shrive me, Father, ere I die,'
The moaning stranger said;
He took him to his own hearth side
And laid him on his bed.

'Oh, Father! Father! hear me now
And let me rest in peace.'
'Now speak, my son, and tell your sin
To give your soul release.'
'It was one night a year ago—
Sweet Mary, ease my pain—
I followed far your toiling feet
Within a lonely lane.
'The red gold for the old and poor
You had beneath your gown,
I hid within a darksome place
Where I could strike you down.'
Now Father John he smiled and leant
In pity by the bed,
'I did disarm you by my prayer,
I thank the Lord,' he said.
'I went in fear upon my path
I knew some danger lay,
And lone I knelt upon the road
A little while to pray.'

The dying man he raised his head
And laughed both long and loud,
'Oh, ne'er a prayer would hold my hand
Or keep you from your shroud.
'But by you went two mighty men
To guard you either side,
Else had my dagger reached your heart
And surely you had died.'
Then Father John upon his knees
Bent low his holy head,
'God's angels walked beside me there
Lest you my blood should shed
My guardian angels walked by me,
I thank Thee, Lord,' he said.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Saint Maura: A.D. 304

Thank God! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last!
The guards are crouching underneath the rock;
The lights are fading in the town below,
Around the cottage which this morn was ours.
Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone;
Alone upon our crosses with our God;
While all the angels watch us from the stars.
Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him,
And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign
Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord!
Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb!
Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love,
Never till now loved utterly! Oh say,
Say you forgive me! No-you must not speak:
You said it to me hours ago-long hours!
Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes
Speak to the people, call them home to God,
A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;
And plead from off the tree with outspread arms,
To show them that the Son of God endured
For them-and me. Hush! I alone will speak,
And while away the hours till dawn for you.
I know you have forgiven me; as I lay
Beneath your feet, while they were binding me,
I knew I was forgiven then! When I cried
'Here am I, husband! The lost lamb returned,
All re-baptized in blood!' and you said, 'Come!
Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!'
From that same moment all my pain was gone;
And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled
Love-love! Alas, those eyes! They made me fall.
I could not bear to see them, bleeding, dark,
Never, no never to look into mine;
Never to watch me round the little room
Singing about my work, or flash on me
Looks bright with counsel.-Then they drove me mad
With talk of nameless tortures waiting you-
And I could save you! You would hear your love-
They knew you loved me, cruel men! And then-
Then came a dream; to say one little word,
One easy wicked word, we both might say,
And no one hear us, but the lictors round;
One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,
And both, both free! And life had just begun-
Only three months-short months-your wedded wife
Only three months within the cottage there-
Hoping I bore your child. . . .
Ah! husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me!
I am forgiven! . . .
And then another dream;
A flash-so quick, I could not bear the blaze;
I could not see the smoke among the light-
To wander out through unknown lands, and lead
You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town,
On, on, until we died; and stand each day
To glory in you, as you preached and prayed
From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words,
Mingled with fire and honey-you would wake,
Bend, save whole nations! would not that atone
For one short word?-ay, make it right, to save
You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?
And so-and so-alas! you knew the rest!
You answered me. . . .
Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words.
You had done nobly had you struck me dead,
Instead of striking me to life!-the temptress! . . .
'Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!'-
'The smell of death upon me?'-so it was!
True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped,
Those words, my madness, like the angel's voice
Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear.
There was but one right thing in the world to do;
And I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ!
Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail
Yet, as I failed before! . . . I could not speak-
I could not speak for shame and misery,
And terror of my sin, and of the things
I knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!
There we should meet, perhaps-and by that time
I might be worthy of you once again-
Of you, and of my God. . . . So I went out.
. . . . . .
Will you hear more, and so forget the pain?
And yet I dread to tell you what comes next;
Your love will feel it all again for me.
No! it is over; and the woe that's dead
Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love!
Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry!
To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat,
And they will give you water. One to-day,
A soldier, gave me water in a sponge
Upon a reed, and said, 'Too fair! too young!
She might have been a gallant soldier's wife!'
And then I cried, 'I am a soldier's wife!
A hero's!' And he smiled, but let me drink.
God bless him for it!
So they led me back:
And as I went, a voice was in my ears
Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath
And blaze of all the garden slopes below,
And through the harvest-voices, and the moan
Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above,
And round the shining rivers, and the peaks
Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,
And round the ancient stones about my feet.
Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried,
'My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak
To give thee strength to say so?' Then my soul
Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast,
While all the people made a ring around,
And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly-
'Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?'
'No! He has brought me to a better mind!'-
I cried, and said beside-I know not what-
Words which I learnt from thee-I trust in God
Nought fierce or rude-for was I not a girl
Three months ago beneath my mother's roof?
I thought of that. She might be there! I looked-
She was not there! I hid my face and wept.
And when I looked again, the judge's eye
Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought-
'She knows what shame is still; so strip her.' 'Ah!'
I shrieked, 'Not that, Sir! Any pain! So young
I am-a wife too-I am not my own,
But his-my husband's!' But they took my shawl,
And tore my tunic off, and there I stood
Before them all. . . . Husband! you love me still?
Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon,
And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed,
While some cried 'Shame!' and some, 'She is too young!'
And some mocked-ugly words: God shut my ears.
And yet no earthquake came to swallow me.
While all the court around, and walls, and roofs,
And all the earth and air were full of eyes,
Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,
Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow:
And yet no earthquake came! And then I knew
This body was not yours alone, but God's-
His loan-He needed it: and after that
The worst was come, and any torture more
A change-a lightening; and I did not shriek-
Once only-once, when first I felt the whip-
It coiled so keen around my side, and sent
A fire-flash through my heart which choked me-then
I shrieked-that once. The foolish echo rang
So far and long-I prayed you might not hear.
And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,
Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears
Of humming bees around the limes at home;
And I was all alone with you and God.
And what they did to me I hardly know;
I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back,
It was not after all so very sharp:
So do not pity me. It made me pray;
Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,
And you in God: and once, when I looked down,
And saw an ugly sight-so many wounds!
'What matter?' thought I. 'His dear eyes are dark;
For them alone I kept these limbs so white-
A foolish pride! As God wills now. 'Tis just.'
But then the judge spoke out in haste: 'She is mad,
Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!'
He did not know I was on fire within:
Better he should not; so his sin was less.
Then he cried fiercely, 'Take the slave away,
And crucify her by her husband's side!'
And at those words a film came on my face-
A sickening rush of joy-was that the end?
That my reward? I rose, and tried to go-
But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge;
And all the buildings melted into mist:
So how they brought me here I cannot tell-
Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day,
And after that for ever and for ever!
Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch!
One finger tip, to send the thrill through me
I felt but yesterday!-No! I can wait:-
Another body!-Oh, new limbs are ready,
Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve,
Kept for us in the treasuries of God.
They will not mar the love they try to speak,
They will not fail my soul, as these have done!
. . . . .
Will you hear more? Nay-you know all the rest:
Yet those poor eyes-alas! they could not see
My waking, when you hung above me there
With hands outstretched to bless the penitent-
Your penitent-even like The Lord Himself-
I gloried in you!-like The Lord Himself!
Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown
Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow
To make you like Him-show you as you were!
I told them so! I bid them look on you,
And see there what was the highest throne on earth-
The throne of suffering, where the Son of God
Endured and triumphed for them. But they laughed;
All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;
And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you,
And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud-
You heard me! You know all! I am at peace.
Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon
Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile,
And kept me happy, when they dragged me back
From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,
And bound my wrists and ankles-Do not sigh:
I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up
My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own,
Nor will, till death comes! . . .
Do I feel much pain?
Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear.
It has become like part of my own life,
Or part of God's life in me-honour-bliss!
I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest;
Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night.
I should be easy, now, if I could move . . .
I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fire
Through all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you!
Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed?
Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil
Unless it conquers us. These little wrists, now-
You said, one blessed night, they were too slender,
Too soft and slender for a deacon's wife-
Perhaps a martyr's:-You forgot the strength
Which God can give. The cord has cut them through;
And yet my voice has never faltered yet.
Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray
That you may die: and you must not die yet.
Not yet-they told us we might live three days . . .
Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak
Words which may wake the dead!
. . . . .
Hush! is he sleeping?
They say that men have slept upon the cross;
So why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe:
And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!-save
Souls, crowds, for Thee! And they will know his worth
Years hence-poor things, they know not what they do!-
And crown him martyr; and his name will ring
Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars
Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see
His triumph-Preacher! Martyr!-Ah-and me?-
If they must couple my poor name with his,
Let them tell all the truth-say how I loved him,
And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord!
Returning good for evil! and was this
The payment I deserved for such a sin?
To hang here on my cross, and look at him
Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven!

Eversley, 1852.

poem by Charles Kingsley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Aboard At A Ship's Helm

the island with the gracious mountain
the tip of the boat inches steadily forward
my heart angled between it
one hour, two hours, three hours
the mountain looms so grand but so far
the boat plods on... and on
bumping against the wave
going up down, up down
the swirling birds, how fortunate they are up there
i put my bored mind into their wings
and travel to realms that excite the mind and senses
of man and wife and children
that run between the trees, shrubs
that flip past my eyes
i put stories into the houses that run
away so fast from view
warm stories of infatuation, continuous love making
where the world revolves around
a man and woman, and their senses
the halcyon day stays as it is
never runs into night
on and on the river records my imagination
youthful imagination that makes
the young years so worthy of living
so many generations pass for my hero and heroine
in one boat ride seven hours in all
they run on so many fields, cheerful in so many of the houses
before the mountain finally looms big onto my eyes
the stories i have spun trail the waves to another dimension
i ready myself for the stories the almighty spins for me
each step of the way i am now the hero
the waves and the whole mountain lie in wait for me

Aboard At A Ship's Helm
ABOARD, at a ship's helm,
A young steersman, steering with care.
A bell through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,
An ocean-bell-O a warning bell, rock'd by the waves.
O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,
Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place.
For, as on the alert, O steersman, you mind the bell's admonition,
The bows turn, -the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away under her
gray sails,
The beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds
away gaily and safe.
But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship!
O ship of the body-ship of the soul-voyaging, voyaging, voyaging.
Walt Whitman

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Survived... Beyond And Back

When my death came, I mourned my loss... and yet what could be done?
But suddenly I saw The Cross and Jesus Christ, God's Son...
I stared at Him a long, long while, above the ground below,
Where Jesus walked the second mile with warm blood still in flow...

Lord Jesus bled from hair and head, from back and hands and feet,
Till suddenly God's Son was dead, His sacrifice complete...
And in that second, I screamed out, enraged despite my grief
And in the crowd I ran about in utter disbelief...

They let Him die, they saw it all, they made me mad as Hell!
As if He were their spectacle and they were in a spell...
A sword appeared in my left hand, a voice said, 'Kill, kill, kill! '
Yet God made me to understand that Christ obeyed His will...

The sword fell down upon the ground as I gasped in surprise,
To see my King with thorns now crowned above His blood-stained eyes.
I trembled as my rage still burned, then fell down to my knees...
Here was the Saviour they had spurned despite His Mother's pleas...

I heard God's voice bid me depart and I went back to Earth
And there I wept with broken heart as if Man had no worth...
As if we all should go to Hell, no mercy to us shown,
As if we all should say farewell to all the joys we've known...

Somehow I slept, no more to weep, right there upon the floor,
Yet God gave me a dream to keep, to share for evermore...
I saw lost souls, so dark, depraved, a billion spared by Christ,
For by His blood their souls were saved when life was sacrificed...

And only then did my rage leave, as precious peace took hold,
With no more reason left to grieve through what I saw unfold...
God's mysteries remain as His, they last eternally,
As long as we know who Christ is... The King of Calvary...

Denis Martindale, copyright, June 2012.

The poem is based on the Biography Channel
which has shared the life stories of some who
died yet came back with accounts of Heaven
and some of Hell. In this poem, I'm exploring
how someone responds to the death of Jesus.
Initial rage is based upon human understanding.
God's Word reveals His eternal plan of salvation.
Whether we will accept near death experiences,
dreams, visions, prophecy or poetry, we are
meant to accept God's Word, the Holy Bible.

We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...

poem by Denis Martindale
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The Great Eastern

The bones of the great and troubled ship
Lay under a greying sky,
I'd travelled on up to Liverpool
To see the monster die,
The wreckers were ripping the hull apart,
Were opening wounds of old,
Not only the bones of a rusty ship
But the bones of a tale untold!

My mind went back those thirty years
To the time when we built the ship,
When I was a poor, young riveter,
Just out on my maiden trip,
I'd found some digs in Millwall,
Right down in the Isle of Dogs,
Where the Thames sweeps on forever
In a miasma of mist and fogs.

I moved on in with Ted and Jane,
The Lamptreys they were called,
He was a man of forty years,
She was just twenty four,
But Ted was grim and serious,
While Jane was as light as froth,
While he was around, he held her down,
I thought her a fluttering moth.

She'd laugh and dance, and prance around
When Ted was not at home,
He liked his pint of Guinness Stout,
His beer, a head of foam,
He said that he'd worked a mighty thirst
For Isambard Brunel,
Whose dream of the great Leviathan
Rose up from the depths of hell.

I got me a job with Ted down there,
Riveting iron plates,
That ship was the first with a double hull
With an inner working space,
We belted the red-hot rivets in
And flattened the ends across,
We'd work in pairs, and the light was scarce
In the depths of that albatross.

Whenever old Ted would seek the pub
I'd go on home to Jane,
I thought that she must have feelings,
But the love that I felt was pain,
For I never dared to voice it, though
She must have looked in my eyes,
To see the way that my feelings lay
It was way beyond disguise.

Then Ted had begun to drink too much,
He said it was getting him down,
All he could hear were the hammers,
Hammers, belting his head around.
They chimed all day in his weary head
They rang all night in his sleep,
Drowned out the sound of our laughter
Like an echo relayed from the deep.

He belted Jane and he made her cry
While I had nothing to say,
I thought that I couldn't come in-between
A man and his wife that way,
She saw my eyes, and they said it all,
I'd sit, and begin to grieve,
I just couldn't bear the thought that he
Might say that I had to leave!

The Eastern Company went bust,
Went broke in '56,
And we were all laid off, until
The finances were fixed,
We spent some terrible weeks at home,
Living on toast and tea,
Wondering how to pay the rent
And arguing constantly.

They hired us back, began again,
But Ted and I were sour,
For Jane had begun to talk to me,
Ignored him by the hour,
We worked down deep in the hull this time
But spoke not a friendly word,
With just the clash of the hammers as
The heat of our tempers soared.

He worked inside, in the inner space
As I beat the rivets in,
He'd disappear in the iron walls
To the clash of the hammer's din,
My mind began to play me tricks,
My hammer felt like lead,
And then as he peered on out one day,
I hit him across the head.

He fell back into that inner space
With neither a scream, nor curse,
I knew if I pulled him out again
There'd be calls for a horse and hearse.
I fitted a whole new iron plate
And riveted it in place,
Wiped the blood from my hammer,
And the sweat from my trembling face.

That night, I told poor Jane I'd left him
Outside the Crown and Heart,
She didn't say much 'til midnight when
He hadn't returned to the hearth,
For days, she hurried around to seek
Her husband in every lane,
But only I knew the reason why
He'd never come home again!

For months, I hoped and I prayed that
She would fall in my loving arms,
And weep her sorrows away with me
While sharing some of her charms.
But Jane was bitter and fretful, she
Would glare at me in the dark,
And nothing would raise her spirits now,
The light had gone from her spark.

The ship had neared completion when
I offered my hand to her,
'You must have guessed that I love you, Jane? '
She turned on me with a curse.
'You think to replace my husband? Hah!
I wouldn't take you on a whim,
For Ted was really my one true love,
I'll keep myself true to him! '

The ship was launched, and I left that place,
I signed as one of the crew,
I'd killed a man for a dream, like sand
That had trickled my fingers through.
I dreamt that Ted was alive, not dead
And clanking his length of chain,
In the bowels of Brunel's Great Eastern
And calling me out, by name!

That ship was cursed from the day it launched,
When one of the boilers blew,
As it crossed the Atlantic swell it lost
A paddle-wheel or two,
The rudder snapped at the iron post,
A reef put her in tow,
I knew full well that the hounds of hell
Were trapped there, down below!

I'm old and tired, as I watch the iron
Now stripped from the Eastern's side,
When suddenly there's a shout goes up:
'There's a skeleton inside! '
Now back in my lonely boarding house
I write this in despair,
In death, he waits with a hammer of hate,
Ted clanks his chains down there!

18 February 2010

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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