The Castle in the Marsh
The Castle out in the marshes ruled
The serfs with an iron rod,
The yeomen, hidden in cottages,
Were careful where they trod,
The soldiers poured from the Castle walls
And rode the peasants down,
They stole the women they caught abroad
And returned to the Castle grounds.
There was only a single causeway that
Was guarded, night and day,
Many a father came to grief
When crossing the moat, to pay,
To save his daughter from certain shame,
A fate that, worse than death,
Was tearing the heart from Amber Vale
As the mothers mourned, distressed.
The Baron, Ralph Fitzherbert held
His acres from the King,
(That William, known as Rufus, who
Would hunt most anything) ,
He was known as ‘Baron Slaughter'
For he murdered them at will,
He burdened them all with taxes,
Raped and pillaged, and then he'd kill.
The women held in the Castle Keep
Were set to work, and raped,
They scrubbed in the kitchen galley, cooked
The food, and cleaned the grate,
Two of their number were trusted to
Go out in the misty marsh,
Collecting the herbs and mushrooms for
The Captain of the Guard.
But Aethelflaed had been pregnant with
Fitzherbert's only son,
She came to term in the August and
She hated everyone:
‘The boy's as good as a Norman, I'm
The wife of a Saxon squire, '
She wept, and then she had strangled it,
Throwing it in the fire!
Fitzherbert ranted all day long,
Lamenting what she'd done,
‘I should have known that a Saxon whore's
Not fit to bear my son! '
He stripped and flayed ‘til the flesh had peeled,
‘Til he thought that his arm would tire,
Then dragged her over the hearth, and placed
Her hands in the blazing fire!
They hung her naked from a tree
As the villagers came to wail,
Then rode and murdered her husband there
In the village of Amber Vale,
The women held in the Castle wept
At the Normans' cruelty,
They'd whisper: ‘That was Aethelflaed,
But it might as well be me! '
The Baron held a feast that night
And they drank of their Norman wine,
From casks brought in from Normandy
But opened before they dined,
By midnight they were vomiting
Were helpless, caught in a trance,
From the berries of deadly nightshade squeezed
As the women began to dance.
They lopped off every soldier's head
As they lay, none thought it harsh,
Then they bound and carried the Baron out
And thrust him into the marsh,
With an apple jammed in his gaping jaw
And his glaring eyes so big,
He sank ‘til his head was all they saw
Like the head of a slaughtered pig.
The trees at Amber Vale were hung
With a strange but exotic fruit,
The heads of the soldiers hanging there
With their coats of mail, to suit,
They stormed the Castle and burnt it down
The ruins would make you quail,
For Belladonna is nurtured there
By the village of Amber Vale!
2 September 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Legend of Mammon Castle
IN THE days that will be olden after many years are gone,
Ere the world emerged from darkness floating out into the dawn,
On a mountain rising steeply from the depth of marsh and wood
Raised in scorn above the lowlands Mammon Castle proudly stood—
Mammon Castle, built of marble that was cut and reared with pain
By the poor and starving wretches who were serfs on that domain—
All the jewel-studded windows shone at sunset like a fire,
And a diamond was flashing from the needle of the spire.
Now the nobles held the castle by a title that was old,
And they drank from crystal goblets and they ate from plates of gold;
The coffers of the castle they were plenished by the thralls,
And many were the revels that were held in Mammon’s halls.
And the plunder from the toilers more than paid for silks and wine,
So the flower-beds were bordered with the jewels of the mine,
All the serfs were taught to worship both the lady and the lord,
And the nobles taught their children to be wiser far than God.
But a vassal preached sedition and in a gloomy hour
Came the wild and haggard vassals to the gate of Mammon Tower;
They asked for food and shelter and were answered by a blow,
And, rising in their anger, soon they laid the castle low.
The jewels of the castle went to buy the people bread,
And according to his labour was the toiler clothed and fed.
And with the wood and marble—my dreaming tells me so—
Many little homes were builded in the valleys down below.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Castle of Lost in Time
The Castle that stood in the farmer's field
Was a grey and battered shrine,
As kids we'd clamber the battlements
And imagine a former time,
When Norman soldiers stood at the heights,
Looked down on the Saxon serfs,
Who paid their tax to the Baron there
When the Normans ruled the earth!
And I'd be Baron Fitzwulf up there,
While Craig would be Robin Hood,
Our histories would be twisted there,
We'd mix and match what we could.
A hundred years was a slip of time
To pray for my own soul's sake,
When I was Thomas A'Becket, and
He was Sir Francis Drake.
The walls were battered and falling down
Had been since the Cromwell siege,
When Charles had fled with his standard, said
No longer to be ‘My Liege! '
The cannon had ripped through the southern wall
Had brought the portcullis down,
And the Roundheads, ferried across the moat
Had slain every man they found!
But ivy clung to the stubborn stone,
And climbed right up to the tower,
Where knights once practised their courtly love
Grew the strangest sort of flower,
Its petals red in the morning sun
With a heart of gold within,
‘They'd pluck it up on their lances there, '
Said Craig, ‘for Ann Boleyn! '
Above our heads was a fireplace
Set high in the ancient wall,
The beams long gone where a floor belonged,
There'd once been a stately hall,
Where Dames had danced in their silken gowns
And knights had cast in their lots,
Had drawn up the Magna Carta there
For the shame of John the fox!
But Farmer Giles was a bitter man
And he'd chase us over the brook,
Whenever he showed in the Castle grounds,
No matter what time it took,
He even managed to fence it off
But we'd scale the fence with glee,
And play to our hearts content, with him
Away where he couldn't see!
One night, we carried our sleeping bags
And stole through the darkening night,
I was the Duke of Marlborough
And Craig was Sir Hugh De'Spight,
We made our way through the ruins, found
A nook, we could safely sleep,
‘We'll wait ‘til the morning light, ' I said,
‘Then we'll play the Lord of the Keep! '
We woke as the Moon beamed overhead
Peeked out through a glowering cloud,
I could hear the strains of a harpsichord
The murmured sounds of a crowd,
A man that looked like a villainous lord
Appeared, not saying a word,
We scrambled out of our sleeping bags
As he drew out a wicked sword!
Then Craig took off with a yell, and I
Flew over the slated floor,
We jumped down into a passageway
That hadn't been there before,
The walls were damp with an evil stain
And brands that flickered the way,
Along to the castle dungeons, filled
With chains, and a smell - Decay!
And there in a tiny cell we saw,
Most rivetting sight of all,
The skull of a grinning skeleton,
Chained fast to the dungeon wall,
The bones were covered in cobwebs
But he'd scrawled in dust on the floor,
‘Pray God to smite all mine enemies,
The Devil will take them all! '
We heard the clanking of chains along
The darkened passageway,
And like a shroud in a shimmering cloud
Was a soldier, dressed in grey,
His stare was that of a madman, crazed
The fires of hell in his eyes,
As he seized the haft of a burning brand
He looked like the Farmer, Giles!
I ran clean through the spectre, thought
That Craig was coming behind,
Cleared the end of the tunnel, leapt
Back up in a single bound,
I didn't stop for a backward glance
I ran with a sense of doom,
Away from the Castle of Lost in Time
To the safety of my room.
I never saw Craig, my friend again,
They scoured the countryside,
Ravaged the ancient Castle grounds,
Questioned me ‘til I cried!
They found him dead in the dungeon
Chained, and lying against the wall,
A piece of flint in a bloodied hand
That had scraped in a childish scrawl:
‘May the Devil smite him, through and through,
Mine enemy, Sir Giles FitzHugh! '
20 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Castle Walls
She ventured out from her castle walls
In hopes of meeting me,
I said: ‘we’ll flee to the furthest shores,
We’ll run to the far countree,
We’ll sit in bliss on a grassy slope
To see our love returned; ’
I looked again at the moat and saw
That all the boats were burned.
‘How shall I leave my castle walls
And all that keeps me free,
I fear the step that you wish to take
Could spell the end for me,
I wish to come, if I only dared, ’
She said in a sad reply,
The moat was still and the air was chill
And the moon was riding high.
I stood alone by the castle moat
As she turned to seek the warm;
‘The roads of life are a trap, ’ I cried,
‘But so is a thunderstorm,
So are the walls of a castle when
The mortar turns to dust,
So are the bolts on a castle gate
When the hinges start to rust.’
‘You weary me, I must be free, ’
The tower echoed, black,
‘As free as the castle walls allow, ’
I called in sadness back.
‘It’s not too late for the grassy slope
To see our love returned -’
I looked again at the moat and saw
That all the boats were burned.
12 July 1973
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Castle of Thought
Cold stone bricks,
A Castle of thought,
Holding feelings of myself
A cold starving prisoner.
A frigid chill
Seeps through cracks,
Cold are the thoughts of man,
Freezing the dark center.
Depraved of light
under Depression’s rule
Darkness surrounds the cell.
Walls with no windows
A castle of thought
Which keeps the soul hidden
In the icy domain
Of the Baron Depression.
Then comes an invasion on the wall
Threatening the peace of pity
And its lord Depression.
A siege of poetry
And self esteem
Its champion: Love.
Worry the dwellings
Of the castle of thought.
Bombardments rock
my small dark cell
visions of being crushed
during the confusion of battle
Frightens my starving spirit.
A war of virtue
At odds since the beginning
oppose each other on the
Fields of forever,
Neither ready to surrender,
Armies willing to perish
For control over my human soul.
An internal battle
taking its toll
On Baron’s castle of thought.
Warriors of ideals
Wasted on bloody moors
Ghastly Scavengers flock
On black wings
To pick their bones clean.
The ravens are at the wall
Eating what remains of
Depression’s dark armies.
The sovereign leader of
Darkness and dread
Escapes to devise
A tactic for another day
Love’s warm light filters through
Small splits rend in the bricks
And my cage flies open.
I am free to bathe in the sun’s
Hot golden rays.
I celebrate in feast and dance
around the fire of joy
kindled in the center
Of what is left of the castle of thought.
Love has released me
from bondage and chains,
Into the arms of my Queen,
Jubilation.
We plan a new home
her and I
with daisies and roses,
white picket fences
And all that is beautiful to view
We call it our Cottage of hope.
so all that remains is
loves blazing light
Forever there until
Future dark days.
poem by Heath Harrington
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My Castle In A Tree
As the sweet rain smears the watercolor world
And the beams of sunshine are stirred into it
As the trees ripple and splash around me
And my knees melt into the ground
The enormous trunk looms before me
My castle in a tree
Roots run in muscular veins down the mammoth redwood
They are the perfect staircase for me to ascend
As my swollen tears float off to space
The castle doors open to greet me
And my face is bathed in lamplight from within
My castle in a tree
The walls breathe a sigh of welcome
Flames leap onto every white wax candle
I take off my sandals so that my ancient feet
Warm the polished wooden floor
The world, it shivers before me in
My castle in a tree
The leaves, they let the sunlight in
But guard me from the things that lurk
Just beyond the edge of the earth
So that he not a one can see me
And there is not a thing at all to remember in
My castle in a tree
At once it evaporates into the golden sky
My hands and legs enflame before me
All the world is drowned in blackness and
Leaves not a single silver bubble
This is the death, the murder of
My castle in a tree
poem by Christopher R. Kennedy
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The Norman Baron
et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut
que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de
maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de
posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui
avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de
l'Angleterre.
In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered
And the castle-turret shook,
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.
By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster,
From the missal on his knee;
And, amid the tempest pealing,
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster
Rang for the Nativity.
In the hall, the serf and vassal
Held, that night their Christmas wassail;
Many a carol, old and saintly,
Sang the minstrels and the waits;
And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,
That the storm was heard but faintly,
Knocking at the castle-gates.
Till at length the lays they chanted
Reached the chamber terror-haunted,
Where the monk, with accents holy,
Whispered at the baron's ear.
Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
As he paused awhile and listened,
And the dying baron slowly
Turned his weary head to hear.
"Wassail for the kingly stranger
Born and cradled in a manger!
King, like David, priest, like Aaron,
Christ is born to set us free!"
And the lightning showed the sainted
Figures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shuddering baron,
"Miserere, Domine!"
In that hour of deep contrition
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,
Justice, the Avenger, rise.
All the pomp of earth had vanished,
Falsehood and deceit were banished,
Reason spake more loud than passion,
And the truth wore no disguise.
Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures,
By his hand were freed again.
And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,
And the monk replied, "Amen!"
Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal,
Mingling with the common dust:
But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Love and Life at the Sea shore
A castle was built with sands
Many moments of love and care,
At the sea shore, how he dared?
But the boy brought it up with his hands.
A big wave brought it down.
It didn’t last, his moments of joy
How a blow could destroy
Saw the boy, his castle drowned.
He wept for long but stood up again.
Love and dreams, those around you
Bring you back in life too.
Collecting shells drove him when.
poem by Kingshuk Chakraborty
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Castle of Dream
Have you been there
in the castle of dream?
I've been there
in the castle of dream.
There were many people
of different colors,
of different clothes,
of different language,
in one long table
enjoying different foods
exchanging smiles
with pure gentle love
glowing in their eyes.
In the castle of dream,
I've been there...
just......behind the walls.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Castle in the Sand
I built castle in the sand
Reaching to the far off land
I gathered the sand to mount it high
Thinking to built a castle in the sky
But fate took a different path
The castle I had built was down at last
The breeze blew
The castle flew...
I now sit here all alone
Gathering the sand to rebuild a home
But what a dream I did see
To always have him near by me
poem by Meena Mustafa
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Fast rode the knight
Fast rode the knight
With spurs, hot and reeking,
Ever waving an eager sword,
"To save my lady!"
Fast rode the knight,
And leaped from saddle to war.
Men of steel flickered and gleamed
Like riot of silver lights,
And the gold of the knight's good banner
Still waved on a castle wall.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
A horse,
Blowing, staggering, bloody thing,
Forgotten at foot of castle wall.
A horse
Dead at foot of castle wall.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Cold Iron
Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.
"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of them all."
So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- shall be master of you all!"
Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron -- Cold Iron -- was master of it all!
Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"
"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all."
Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown --
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.
"As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"
Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
"Here is Bread and here is Wine -- sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron -- Cold Iron -- can be master of men all!"
He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread,
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron -- Cold Iron -- to be master of men all."
"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason -- I redeem thy fall --
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"
Crowns are for the valiant -- sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold.
"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The End of the Feud
The revellers came to Castle Krag
And whirled in through the hall,
Into the lavish ballroom with
The Lord of Donegal,
He came with his wife and mistresses,
A merry, laughing crew,
To answer the call by Castle Krag
To end their ancient feud!
For there by the central pillars stood
The Baron, John FitzHugh,
A smile on the ravaged, bitter lips
That his enemies once knew,
He was of a mind to end it all,
The bitterness, the strife,
And even smiled at the courtesan
That he'd asked to make his wife.
She'd laughed, and fluttered her fan at him,
'I don't think so, my lord.
I'd rather share in the favours of
The Lord of Donegal! '
And so she had joined the mistresses
Of his neighbour, and his foe,
The family of O'Donnell with
Their feud of long ago.
So long ago it was lost in time,
The generations passed,
But none of the bitterness had gone,
Some things were meant to last,
The wife of the Second Baron
Had absconded in the night,
With the heir to the Lord of Donegal,
He'd not put up a fight.
The Seventh Baron, John FitzHugh,
Now strolled around the floor,
Intent on greeting guests as he
Had never done before,
'There's wine and ale a-plenty,
We have venison and game,
Let's make it the sort of party that
Goes down in the Hall of Fame! '
The orchestra struck up a tune,
The ladies whirled their fans,
And strutted with their bustles,
Tripped the floor and waved their hands,
Loosened off the stays that held
Confining every breast,
As bodices then fell apart,
Revealing all the rest.
The wine was flowing freely, you
Could see it in their eyes,
These revellers, who'd come to gloat,
The man they'd ostracized,
They laughed and chattered freely
Lurched and fell in revelry,
The Lord of Donegal was drunk,
And sat with Alice Leigh.
The Baron looked at Alice and
She stared him in the eyes,
'Is what you see acceptable, my lord,
Are you surprised? '
She placed the Lord of Donegal's
Right hand upon her breast,
As all the while the Baron stood,
Most pale, and quite distressed.
But out beyond the oaken doors
The masons were at work,
Building a solid wall of stone
That no-one could disturb,
While others filled the windows with
Their mortar and their lime,
And slate of seven inches thick
From Donegal's own mine.
By midnight John FitzHugh had gone,
Was nowhere to be seen,
The revellers were drunk as dogs
And thought to leave the scene,
Whereon the baron, he appeared
On some high balcony,
Within the ballroom's gothic dome
He called to the company.
'I trust you have enjoyed the fare
I've given you this night,
What's left, you'd better make it last,
There's nothing else in sight!
You may as well just party on,
There's nowhere left to go,
The ballroom, your last resting place,
Fit for my ancient foe! '
They rushed the doors, they found the wall,
They tried each window pane,
They looked for any exit but
Their search was quite in vain,
The ballroom was a prison with
No doors, and yet no bars,
They milled around the empty room
And stared up at the stars.
'And now for you, a final treat, '
The baron bellowed down,
'My Lord of Donegal, I hear
You thought to wear the crown,
I have some things to crown you with,
Suspended in this sheet...'
He tugged a cord, it opened up
And billowed at his feet.
The cockroaches that he had bred
In dungeons, dark and warm,
Were loosed from that suspended sheet
And fell there, in a swarm, ,
A million crawling roaches that
Festooned the ladies hair,
Crawled in and out of bodices
To screams of pure despair.
And then the lights went down, and they
Were screaming in their need,
As all those crawling roaches found
New places they could breed,
And Baron John FitzHugh went out
And thought to come back late,
The screams he'd heard were more than
Quite enough, to feed his hate.
* * * * * * *
A week went by, he took an axe
And smashed that masonry,
Remorse had come upon him and
He thought of Alice Leigh,
'If only God has spared her, I'll repent, '
He prayed aloud,
But all was silent in that room,
Each corpse would need a shroud.
And then the slightest movement by
The pillars in the hall,
Had caught his eye, he gave a sigh
And felt that he might fall,
For Alice Leigh was propped upright
And stared and stared at him,
'I love you still, ' he groaned, 'my dear,
Why did you go with him? '
He waited for her answer, she
Had still not made a move,
She stood there in the darkness, like
Some beauty from the Louvre,
But then her lips had parted and
His heart stopped, in despair,
As roaches poured from her eyes and mouth
And crawled all through her hair!
12 January 2010
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Laputa
Inspired by the epic anime,
'Laputa, Castle in the Sky',
I decided to build my own castle,
A castle that would fly!
At first I tested some bricks,
I lobbed them far and wide.
I lobbed them at my owner,
They hit him and he cried.
I tried with lumps of concrete,
And with some heavy breeze blocks.
I got a little despondent,
At the flightlessness of rocks.
But, I persevered.
I worked all day and night,
My owner made a bet that I would fail.
But I was finished by morning light.
I had built a flying castle!
My owner was rather heated.
He couldn't believe that I had won.
He claimed that I had cheated.
It was a flying castle,
as plain as any day.
My owner wasn't having it.
He's a bad loser, I'd say.
He said it wasn't real.
He said, 'It's not a proper thing, you loon!
'You've inflated a bouncy castle with helium'
'and made a big balloon! '
poem by Sebastian Seal
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Hors-d’oeuvre
Long ago and far away
lived a knight not so bold
and he often considered
how he would rescue a damsel in distress.
Not being bold or handsome to
the knight wondered what he should do.
Then came a day
when his lady fair was kidnapped
and the knight was perplexed
at what he should do.
Mounting his steed he galloped
to the castle where she was held.
The walls of the castle
seem to stretch to the sky.
How was he to save her
and rescue her virtue from these wicked men?
He could not scale this fortress
and breech its stone walls,
From within the walls he heard
groans and wails ring out.
The thoughts of them
stealing her virtue
made his voice ring out.
“Open the gates and let me in.”
The gates duly opened
and the knight with sword in hand
quickly rode his steed in.
There was his lady fair
being ravished by several men.
“Leave ye lady fair alone.”
The knight was taken back
as his lady fair’s voice
echoed in his ears.
“Be gone you silly knight,
can’t you see this lady
wants to have some fun.”
6-7 September 2010
poem by David Harris
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The Last Shuttee
Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States.
His wives, disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee,
would have broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred.
But one of them, disguised as the King's favourite dancing-girl,
passed through the line of guards and reached the pyre. There,
her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court,
to kill her. This he did, not knowing who she was.
Udai Chand lay sick to death
In his hold by Gungra hill.
All night we heard the death-gongs ring
For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King,
All night beat up from the women's wing
A cry that we could not still.
All night the barons came and went,
The lords of the outer guard:
All night the cressets glimmered pale
On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail,
Mewar headstall and Marwar mail,
That clinked in the palace yard.
In the Golden room on the palace roof
All night he fought for air:
And there was sobbing behind the screen,
Rustle and whisper of women unseen,
And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen
On the death she might not share.
He passed at dawn -- the death-fire leaped
From ridge to river-head,
From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars:
And wail upon wail went up to the stars
Behind the grim zenana-bars,
When they knew that the King was dead.
The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth
And robe him for the pyre.
The Boondi Queen beneath us cried:
"See, now, that we die as our mothers died
In the bridal-bed by our master's side!
Out, women! -- to the fire!"
We drove the great gates home apace:
White hands were on the sill:
But ere the rush of the unseen feet
Had reached the turn to the open street,
The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat --
We held the dovecot still.
A face looked down in the gathering day,
And laughing spoke from the wall:
"Oh]/e, they mourn here: let me by --
Azizun, the Lucknow nautch-girl, I!
When the house is rotten, the rats must fly,
And I seek another thrall.
"For I ruled the King as ne'er did Queen, --
To-night the Queens rule me!
Guard them safely, but let me go,
Or ever they pay the debt they owe
In scourge and torture!" She leaped below,
And the grim guard watched her flee.
They knew that the King had spent his soul
On a North-bred dancing-girl:
That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god,
And kissed the ground where her feet had trod,
And doomed to death at her drunken nod,
And swore by her lightest curl.
We bore the King to his fathers' place,
Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand:
Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen
On fretted pillar and jewelled screen,
And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen
On the drift of the desert sand.
The herald read his titles forth,
We set the logs aglow:
"Friend of the English, free from fear,
Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer,
Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer,
King of the Jungle, -- go!"
All night the red flame stabbed the sky
With wavering wind-tossed spears:
And out of a shattered temple crept
A woman who veiled her head and wept,
And called on the King -- but the great King slept,
And turned not for her tears.
Small thought had he to mark the strife --
Cold fear with hot desire --
When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame,
And thrice she beat her breast for shame,
And thrice like a wounded dove she came
And moaned about the fire.
One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze,
The silent streets between,
Who had stood by the King in sport and fray,
To blade in ambush or boar at bay,
And he was a baron old and gray,
And kin to the Boondi Queen.
He said: "O shameless, put aside
The veil upon thy brow!
Who held the King and all his land
To the wanton will of a harlot's hand!
Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand?
Stoop down, and call him now!"
Then she: "By the faith of my tarnished soul,
All things I did not well,
I had hoped to clear ere the fire died,
And lay me down by my master's side
To rule in Heaven his only bride,
While the others howl in Hell.
"But I have felt the fire's breath,
And hard it is to die!
Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord
To sully the steel of a Thakur's sword
With base-born blood of a trade abhorred," --
And the Thakur answered, "Ay."
He drew and struck: the straight blade drank
The life beneath the breast.
"I had looked for the Queen to face the flame,
But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame --
Sister of mine, pass, free from shame,
Pass with thy King to rest!"
The black log crashed above the white:
The little flames and lean,
Red as slaughter and blue as steel,
That whistled and fluttered from head to heel,
Leaped up anew, for they found their meal
On the heart of -- the Boondi Queen!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Balmoral Castle
Beautiful Balmoral Castle,
Most handsome to be seen,
Highland home of the Empress of India,
Great Britain's Queen.
Your woods and waters and
Mountains high are most
Beautiful to see,
Near by Balmoral Castle
And the dark river Dee.
Then there's the hill of Cairngorm
To be seen from afar,
And the beautiful heathery hills
Of dark Lochnagar,
And the handsome little village-
The Castleton o' Braemar-
Which is most beautiful to see,
Near by Balmoral Castle
And the dark river Dee.
Then there's the handsome little church
Of Crathie- most beautiful to be seen ;
And the Queen goes there on Sunday
To hear the Word of God Most solemn and serene,
Which is most beautiful to see,
Nor far from Balmoral Castle
And the dark river Dee.
Then, when she finds herself
At leisure, she goes for to see
Her old female acquaintances
That lives on the river Dee,
And reads the Bible unto them,
Which is most beautiful to see,
Near by Balmoral Castle
And the dark river Dee.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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My Castle In The Sand
I held on tightly to my child
Tightly i held on
The waves were crashing overhead
But still i did hold on.
The waters drove us up the street
Past where friends and i would meet
Dashing down their houses
And leaving not much there
But i held yes i held on
And on my lips there was a prayer
That these torrents would not make me weak
That somehow i would find
Some calm some peace some easiness
And the earthquake left behind
I held on god i held on
To that tender little hand
She was now my sole ambition
And my castle in the sand.
I caught my breath
A hundred times
A hundred times or more
All that i was grasping was
Her clothes and nothing more.
poem by David Keig
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Wounded Knee Creek
Crazy Horse, War Chief of the Sioux Indians of the North American plains, was murdered by white soldiers on September 5th,1877. He was 35.
Soldiers from Fort Robinson came smiling
Pretending friendship to Crazy Horse
Offering the Sioux a lasting peace treaty
But only if the War Chief returned with them.
Trusting lies of those who never honoured any treaty
Crazy Horse rode unarmed into the fort
They barred the gates and held him by the arms
While private William Gentles bayoneted him twice.
Parents of Crazy Horse came to the fort
Took away the body of their warrior son
Secretly buried his majestic heart
At a place called Wounded Knee Creek.
American history records the Indian nations were finally defeated by white soldiers at a place called Wounded Knee Creek on December 29,1890. But it was a massacre. The Indians had surrendered. They were unarmed prisoners when the soldiers opened fire.300 men, women and children were killed.4 men, and 47 women and children survived.
poem by Colin Ian Jeffery
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Barriers
You are in the castle.
I am off the castle.
In between, there is a moat.
My love is an optimist.
14.07.2001, Pkd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A castle stands ’neath western skies
A castle stands ’neath western skies
Gold shields its roof have studded;
The evening sun behind it dies
Midst cloud banks so newly ruddied.
That castle by no hand is wrought:
Perfectly though it’s gilded;
Its gate soars up to heaven’s court;
Our Lord Himself did once built it.
From thousand turrets sparkles gold,
Amber its gate is gleaming;
The sea reflects its walls of old,
With pillars of sun’s rays teeming.
God’s sun into its castle crowds,
Purple raiment inflaming,
On battlements in rosy clouds
Light’s banner’s glory proclaiming.
Sun’s angel waves the flag of light,
Sets off for distant quarters;
Life, light and day him follow right
Behind night’s loud foaming waters.
And like the sun life seeks the coast
Full of transfiguration
Where sun the east once more will host
With paradise as its station.
poem by Bernhard Severin Ingemann
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