I've been wrestling with this one, and coming up with nothing. Nothing in poetry, anyway. The stuff that I've been breaking up into lines is resisting me--all it wants to do is jump back into prose paragraphs. So I was thinking of posting the prose, and I may still do it. Or it may decide to become a poem at some point. But then it occurred to me that something I am currently working on -- a long poem, another contemporary re-imagining of a medieval romance -- begins with a journey, from Camelot to the forest of Inglewood. So here it is:
King Arthur was a man both brave and good; At hunting, this great monarch knew no peer. One chilly morning, garbed in cloak and hood, With noble entourage, and full of cheer, He set his hunting course toward Inglewood, Perchance to seek and slay the wily deer. High in a trestle-tree he set his blind, And searched the woods beneath for hart or hind.
A buck he spotted hidden in the fern, The noblest beast that any could recall— A trophy for which any man would yearn, A rack of fourteen points, erect and tall Each noble nocked an arrow, in his turn, King Arthur’s baying hounds took up the call. Then quoth the king, “This quarry is my own, Wait here behind—I go to hunt alone.”
The buck retreated to a thicket dense. Arthur, with stealth and cunning, followed him. The day drew on; the hunt grew more intense, When up and strode from out the forest dim A fearsome knight, of stature most immense, Of hairy face and hands, and visage grim. “Well met, King Arthur. I have waited long To kill the man who did me grievous wrong.”
“Show me how I have wronged you, my good sir.” “Thou wicked king! Here, let me make it plain, You seized my lands from me by force majeur And gave them to that stripling Sir Gawain, Such slights I’ve suffered! Such as never were, But never will I know such grief again. You’ve fallen victim to this trap I’ve laid, And every insult now shall be repaid.”
“Release me now, and I will make it right, With land and title, gold and sparkling jewel. The world will know you for a noble knight.” “Ho, King! Perhaps you take me for a fool. You’re in my power now, a wretched wight, As helpless as a dotard on a stool, But once released, our fortunes are reversed, You with a mighty army, me accursed.”
“Not so,” King Arthur said. “You have my promise won, And none can break the promise of a king.” “That may be so,” replied Sir Gromerson, But what care I for land, or gold, or things? --And yet there is a way to get our commerce done.” “Just name your tribute. Tell me what to bring.” “Yourself alone, unarmed in every way, To this same thicket, one year from today.”
Still more story than poem but at least I got something out.
Couldn’t wait to fly over the ocean my husband’s Germany posting ended Things were so different from where I came from. I craved familiarity of home.
My husband’s Germany posting ended, taking our son to meet his grandparents. I craved familiarity of home, Nine-month-old Ian craves my breast, nuzzles.
Taking our son to meet his grandparents, Frankfurt airport is loud, crowded, pushy. Nine-month-old Ian craves my breast, nuzzles for comfort and food. I lift my shirt, nurse.
Frankfurt airport is loud, crowded, pushy Old women walk by, point, as Ian sucks for comfort and food. I lift my shirt, nurse. They nod, smile, say “Gut, Gut” I smile back, proud.
Old women walk by, point, as Ian sucks while I board the plane to return home. They nod, smile, say “Gut, Gut” I smile back, proud, head home, babe in arms, to the U.S.A.
While I board the plane to return home. I settle in with Ian, cuddle him, head home, babe in arms, to the U.S.A. land at JFK airport, disembark.
I settle in with Ian, cuddle him, let him keep nursing, let myself relax land at JFK airport, disembark, I’m tired. American old women look
let him keep nursing, let myself relax The women whisper loudly, point, “Breast! Breast!” I’m tired. American old women look. I look back at the ocean, at Europe.
The women whisper loudly, point, “Breast! Breast!” Things were so different from where I came from. I look back at the ocean, at Europe. Couldn’t wait to fly over the ocean.
Here I was, so lost, so lonely Great potential for your one and only Drifting through life on a raft made of dreams Journeying on while it decayed at the seams
My heart told me that I was meant for love With someone the help me in rising above Where I was mired in the bog of despair I cast about the sea for someone to care
When it looked like my boat was about to sink I met my lover who save me from the brink The storms in my life began to abate I was living in love and could celebrate
That love grew abundantly over the years Bringing me joy and calming my fears Now, I feel like I'm where I should be Instead of alone drifting at sea
I was trying to show examples of how weird it is as a child to fall asleep random places and be carried to your bed.
Then I was thinking when else does memory trick us. A drunken black out. A head injury. And finally - Alzheimers where the clear memories are younger years.
It did turn out creepy though. I enjoy how the words lead you down a different path.
started out in Erie where there wasn't any work headed down to Texas where there was worked at a construction site building a motel traveled next to California such beauty shining there worked out on a hillside digging turf traveled on to Oregon and up to Washington worked in agriculture there till snow threatened gathered up belongings and headed south Florida, the orange state and work all winter long then...started over again seeing the U.S.A.
Interesting but I think it could be so much more. You're just giving places. I want to SEE the places. And I think it would have been fine to end up back in Erie. Prompts are only to inspire, they don't have to be followed explicitly.
I've been wrestling with this one, and coming up with nothing. Nothing in poetry, anyway. The stuff that I've been breaking up into lines is resisting me--all it wants to do is jump back into prose paragraphs. So I was thinking of posting the prose, and I may still do it. Or it may decide to become a poem at some point.
ReplyDeleteBut then it occurred to me that something I am currently working on -- a long poem, another contemporary re-imagining of a medieval romance -- begins with a journey, from Camelot to the forest of Inglewood. So here it is:
King Arthur was a man both brave and good;
At hunting, this great monarch knew no peer.
One chilly morning, garbed in cloak and hood,
With noble entourage, and full of cheer,
He set his hunting course toward Inglewood,
Perchance to seek and slay the wily deer.
High in a trestle-tree he set his blind,
And searched the woods beneath for hart or hind.
A buck he spotted hidden in the fern,
The noblest beast that any could recall—
A trophy for which any man would yearn,
A rack of fourteen points, erect and tall
Each noble nocked an arrow, in his turn,
King Arthur’s baying hounds took up the call.
Then quoth the king, “This quarry is my own,
Wait here behind—I go to hunt alone.”
The buck retreated to a thicket dense.
Arthur, with stealth and cunning, followed him.
The day drew on; the hunt grew more intense,
When up and strode from out the forest dim
A fearsome knight, of stature most immense,
Of hairy face and hands, and visage grim.
“Well met, King Arthur. I have waited long
To kill the man who did me grievous wrong.”
“Show me how I have wronged you, my good sir.”
“Thou wicked king! Here, let me make it plain,
You seized my lands from me by force majeur
And gave them to that stripling Sir Gawain,
Such slights I’ve suffered! Such as never were,
But never will I know such grief again.
You’ve fallen victim to this trap I’ve laid,
And every insult now shall be repaid.”
“What is your name, sir knight?” the king inquired.
“King, I am called Sir Gromerson Jouré,
The name that calls you to eternal fire.”
Sir knight, I tell you this is not the way
To get the satisfaction you desire.
To kill me now, you’ll surely rue the day—
To take a man from ambush is not brave,
All men will see a coward and a knave.
“Release me now, and I will make it right,
With land and title, gold and sparkling jewel.
The world will know you for a noble knight.”
“Ho, King! Perhaps you take me for a fool.
You’re in my power now, a wretched wight,
As helpless as a dotard on a stool,
But once released, our fortunes are reversed,
You with a mighty army, me accursed.”
“Not so,” King Arthur said. “You have my promise won,
And none can break the promise of a king.”
“That may be so,” replied Sir Gromerson,
But what care I for land, or gold, or things?
--And yet there is a way to get our commerce done.”
“Just name your tribute. Tell me what to bring.”
“Yourself alone, unarmed in every way,
To this same thicket, one year from today.”
“Done,” said the King. “Hold,” said the knight. “There’s more.
You must engage, if we’re to reach détente,
To seek through town and country, peace and war,
To find from youngest maiden, oldest aunt,
To ask of serf and noble, rich and poor,
This single question: What do women want?
Bring me an answer, when you pass this way
Alone, unarmed, and one year from today.”
There’s more. Lol
Delete.....One year to find out what women want.
Can’t wait to read the sequel.
Have you ever read Tolkien's Gawain and the Green Knight? I think it was a translation, not sure. I owned it once. Love the story.
DeleteI will be happy to supply prompts for the next poems.
ReplyDeleteYou're on the list now. I will wait and make myself last after I see who else is interested.
DeleteStill more story than poem but at least I got something out.
ReplyDeleteCouldn’t wait to fly over the ocean
my husband’s Germany posting ended
Things were so different from where I came from.
I craved familiarity of home.
My husband’s Germany posting ended,
taking our son to meet his grandparents.
I craved familiarity of home,
Nine-month-old Ian craves my breast, nuzzles.
Taking our son to meet his grandparents,
Frankfurt airport is loud, crowded, pushy.
Nine-month-old Ian craves my breast, nuzzles
for comfort and food. I lift my shirt, nurse.
Frankfurt airport is loud, crowded, pushy
Old women walk by, point, as Ian sucks
for comfort and food. I lift my shirt, nurse.
They nod, smile, say “Gut, Gut” I smile back, proud.
Old women walk by, point, as Ian sucks
while I board the plane to return home.
They nod, smile, say “Gut, Gut” I smile back, proud,
head home, babe in arms, to the U.S.A.
While I board the plane to return home.
I settle in with Ian, cuddle him,
head home, babe in arms, to the U.S.A.
land at JFK airport, disembark.
I settle in with Ian, cuddle him,
let him keep nursing, let myself relax
land at JFK airport, disembark,
I’m tired. American old women look
let him keep nursing, let myself relax
The women whisper loudly, point, “Breast! Breast!”
I’m tired. American old women look.
I look back at the ocean, at Europe.
The women whisper loudly, point, “Breast! Breast!”
Things were so different from where I came from.
I look back at the ocean, at Europe.
Couldn’t wait to fly over the ocean.
I like it. You've moved it past telling a story, to making a poem.
DeleteThe breast perspective..... sad.
DeleteYou did such a fine poem here, using the form to such a great advantage, Kudos
DeleteHere I Was, Here I Am
ReplyDeleteHere I was, so lost, so lonely
Great potential for your one and only
Drifting through life on a raft made of dreams
Journeying on while it decayed at the seams
My heart told me that I was meant for love
With someone the help me in rising above
Where I was mired in the bog of despair
I cast about the sea for someone to care
When it looked like my boat was about to sink
I met my lover who save me from the brink
The storms in my life began to abate
I was living in love and could celebrate
That love grew abundantly over the years
Bringing me joy and calming my fears
Now, I feel like I'm where I should be
Instead of alone drifting at sea
The journey from loneliness to love!
DeleteI love it that your "places" are emotional geography rather than physical geography.
DeleteHow very sweet and loving! Yes, nice movement in the poem, and good interpretation
DeleteThis should win you a warm loving kiss, at the very least.
ReplyDeleteI Go Places In My Sleep
ReplyDeleteI
was three
and playing dolls
in the back seat of the car.
I woke up in my bed at home.
Once,
at a
barbecue in
the backyard of my aunt’s,
I saw stars. Then I was home.
I
left my
dorm room to join
a freshman get together.
Seriously, Where am I?
I
wake up
on the cold floor.
I was hanging a picture.
I fell and I can’t get up.
Who
are you?
Where am I now?
The last thing I remember
is playing dolls in the car.
Wow.An unexxpected twist, and so eerie.
DeleteI love it. Like Tad said, the ending was a surprise and makes the poem.
DeleteI was trying to show examples of how weird it is as a child to fall asleep random places and be carried to your bed.
DeleteThen I was thinking when else does memory trick us. A drunken black out. A head injury. And finally - Alzheimers where the clear memories are younger years.
It did turn out creepy though. I enjoy how the words lead you down a different path.
Well done, especially adapted to your favorite form. Thanks for the explanation.
Deletestarted out in Erie
ReplyDeletewhere there wasn't any work
headed down to Texas
where there was
worked at a construction site
building a motel
traveled next to California
such beauty shining there
worked out on a hillside
digging turf
traveled on to Oregon
and up to Washington
worked in agriculture there
till snow threatened
gathered up belongings
and headed south
Florida, the orange state
and work all winter long
then...started over again
seeing the U.S.A.
Interesting but I think it could be so much more. You're just giving places. I want to SEE the places. And I think it would have been fine to end up back in Erie. Prompts are only to inspire, they don't have to be followed explicitly.
DeleteI liked it. It had that Woody Guthrie feel, and I like place names. But I think Victoria has a point...just a detail to make each Place real.
DeleteInteresting and I agree with the other comments, more please!
DeleteI like how the work was weather related and repeating the loop around the country just to be warm and employed.
DeleteSorry I lost track of the days, LOL Here's my poem, hope someone reads it!
ReplyDeleteThen and Now
I grew up by the ocean, falling asleep
to the sound of the waves, and
sometimes, the foghorn's lonely moan.
My childhood as spent wandering
alone, within the boundaries
of my family's property.
Now I live far from the sea
and I don't miss it, nor do I
miss the foghorn's lonely moan.
I moaned like the foghorn reading that you don’t miss the sea!
ReplyDelete