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rhian_crockettI'm not, by nature, a poet. You might see one or two poems turning up on this blog -- at least two, given this post! -- but I don't promise they're any good. Just like I very earnestly wrote novels as a fifteen year old, as a thirteen year old, or thereabouts, I very earnestly wrote a lot of frankly terrible free verse. Now I tend to play with the very strict forms poetry, more to amuse myself than anything. The poems in this post are both fairly recent (the sonnet is, in fact, hot off the presses).
Both of them are Arthurian in some way, and both are about death. Oops? More commentary below the cuts, with some discussion of more general Arthurian stuff.
The following poem is a villanelle, which is probably my favourite form to play with. Putting one together is very much like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle. Not that I've ever really done that -- I tended to get bored halfway through -- but I can imagine. The repetitious nature of it is, of course, suited for talking about grief, madness, fear -- the kind of thoughts you dwell on, over and over again.
One of my favourite minor characters of Arthurian literature has become Ragnelle. Originally, she comes from a poem called The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, but it's Sarah Zettel's Camelot's Shadow that really made me interested in her story. Since then, I wrote a version of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight narrated by her in a gloriously biased way, and fell in love with her even more.
I don't like to imagine how she feels after Gawain's death, as in my mind, her marriage to Gawain is a genuinely respectful and loving relationship.
Ragnelle's Lament for Gawain
Let these words be my last. I will be silent now.
The bells tell their tale. He is dead.
Death has parted us, finally broken our vow.
Live, they tell me? And yet they say not how --
for my soul, with his, has sped.
Let these words be my last. I will be silent now.
He has looked upon he before whom we all bow.
From that dread face my love has fled.
Death has parted us, finally broken our vow.
I was not there -- that he would not allow,
he knew where this path led.
Let these words be my last. I will be silent now.
No word of mine could change the furrow he'd plough,
nor all the tears I have often shed.
Death has parted us, finally broken our vow.
My husband is gone -- let me follow him somehow,
though I shall never rise again from this bed.
Let these words be my last. I am silent now,
for death has parted us, finally broken our vow.
'After Me' is much less of an Arthurian poem. It's partially a response to Pablo Neruda's If I Die. I'm actually with Neruda on this one, but I was reading 'Culhwch and Olwen' today, and Goleuddydd's selfishness struck me. Basically, she told her husband that he couldn't marry again until a two-headed briar was growing on her grave. At the same time, she told her preceptor to clear the grave every year.
Seven years, in the poem, refers to how long the preceptor keeps up his duty in 'Culhwch and Olwen'.
The speaker of my poem isn't Goleuddydd, nor specifically an Arthurian character, but he or she knows the story.
After Me
After me, I don't want you to be alright.
Let there be nothing after me --
send them away, those with their trite
protestations that, 'It'll pass, you'll see.'
Wait for a two-headed briar to grow
on my grave. Wait, not seven years
but seven hundred, for that sign to show.
And dismiss it, even then, if it appears.
Let every moment after me be too long,
let the salt stain your face every day.
Remember me. Do not be strong,
though I am gone, far, on my own way.
But no -- forget that, for this is also true --
live on, live long, and live for you.
And now you guys know what my poetry is like. This feels kind of like showing my butt in public. Eek.
This work by Rhian Crockett is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Both of them are Arthurian in some way, and both are about death. Oops? More commentary below the cuts, with some discussion of more general Arthurian stuff.
The following poem is a villanelle, which is probably my favourite form to play with. Putting one together is very much like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle. Not that I've ever really done that -- I tended to get bored halfway through -- but I can imagine. The repetitious nature of it is, of course, suited for talking about grief, madness, fear -- the kind of thoughts you dwell on, over and over again.
One of my favourite minor characters of Arthurian literature has become Ragnelle. Originally, she comes from a poem called The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, but it's Sarah Zettel's Camelot's Shadow that really made me interested in her story. Since then, I wrote a version of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight narrated by her in a gloriously biased way, and fell in love with her even more.
I don't like to imagine how she feels after Gawain's death, as in my mind, her marriage to Gawain is a genuinely respectful and loving relationship.
Ragnelle's Lament for Gawain
Let these words be my last. I will be silent now.
The bells tell their tale. He is dead.
Death has parted us, finally broken our vow.
Live, they tell me? And yet they say not how --
for my soul, with his, has sped.
Let these words be my last. I will be silent now.
He has looked upon he before whom we all bow.
From that dread face my love has fled.
Death has parted us, finally broken our vow.
I was not there -- that he would not allow,
he knew where this path led.
Let these words be my last. I will be silent now.
No word of mine could change the furrow he'd plough,
nor all the tears I have often shed.
Death has parted us, finally broken our vow.
My husband is gone -- let me follow him somehow,
though I shall never rise again from this bed.
Let these words be my last. I am silent now,
for death has parted us, finally broken our vow.
'After Me' is much less of an Arthurian poem. It's partially a response to Pablo Neruda's If I Die. I'm actually with Neruda on this one, but I was reading 'Culhwch and Olwen' today, and Goleuddydd's selfishness struck me. Basically, she told her husband that he couldn't marry again until a two-headed briar was growing on her grave. At the same time, she told her preceptor to clear the grave every year.
Seven years, in the poem, refers to how long the preceptor keeps up his duty in 'Culhwch and Olwen'.
The speaker of my poem isn't Goleuddydd, nor specifically an Arthurian character, but he or she knows the story.
After Me
After me, I don't want you to be alright.
Let there be nothing after me --
send them away, those with their trite
protestations that, 'It'll pass, you'll see.'
Wait for a two-headed briar to grow
on my grave. Wait, not seven years
but seven hundred, for that sign to show.
And dismiss it, even then, if it appears.
Let every moment after me be too long,
let the salt stain your face every day.
Remember me. Do not be strong,
though I am gone, far, on my own way.
But no -- forget that, for this is also true --
live on, live long, and live for you.
And now you guys know what my poetry is like. This feels kind of like showing my butt in public. Eek.
This work by Rhian Crockett is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
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Date: 2010-10-10 02:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-10-10 04:22 pm (UTC)