Musings of a Nascent Poet

by Stephanie Barr

  Who filled her dreams with passion

  'Til she felt she was depraved.

  He was just a peasant;

  He was coarse and he was poor,

  And, even when her husband died,

  Was hers not one whit more.

  She loved him, oh, she loved him

  As she loved no other man.

  He set her soul to burning,

  Made her heart a flaming brand.

  He set her heart afire,

  But his touch was not to be,

  And nothing could protect her;

  Only fire could set her free.

  'They think of my devotion

  To my wealthy spouse below.

  Don't they know that I care nothing?

  But, of course, how could they know?

  'I only stand beside him

  As the flame around me burns

  For my soul has been on fire

  And my heart within me yearns.'

  She thinks as she stands proudly,

  Scarlet robes already scarred.

  Her long black hair flows, smoldering,

  While her soft pale hands grow charred.

  He stands there in the crowd

  With eyes that tear her soul apart,

  And now she cannot feel the flames

  So strongly burns her heart.

  Quite soon, she will be ashes,

  But she feels she cannot grieve,

  For she saw her precious lover,

  Had that small, but blessed, reprieve.

  Her heart's flame cannot perish

  In the hungry funeral fire;

  Her burning need can't vanish

  On the flaming funeral pyre.

  She needs him, oh, she loves him,

  And, for death, feels not one care.

  She knows she can die happy for

  He loves her . . . He was there . . .

  The fire has long since dwindled,

  But the gossip's burning still;

  The woman stood upon the fire

  In a selfless act of will.

  She stood, without a whimper

  On her husband's funeral bed:

  "A true and fine devotion,"

  All the relatives had said.

  When, to the conflagration,

  Leapt a man no one had known

  Who stood beside the woman

  Who had stood so proud alone,

  Embraced her as eyes watched them,

  Held her close as both they died

  With ne'er a show of sorrow

  And never a painful cry.

  The woman had her answer:

  Can the heart's flame truly die?

  And "Heartbreak Clay" plays off on a line I picked up from a largely forgettable movie Crossroads, but I loved the idea. As you'll see in a later section, the caliber of the source is frequently immaterial to what will spark my imagination.

  Heartbreak Clay

  Down south, they speak of many songs

  And many men who play,

  But no one knows of better songs

  Than those of Heartbreak Clay.

  They say he was a homely kid—

  Old shirt and dusty shoes,

  And though he ne'er saw twenty-five,

  That boy could sing the blues.

  His voice was sweet as honey,

  Mellow like a good cigar,

  And no one else could find the sounds

  He wrung from his guitar.

  His blues could make a grown man weep,

  A sinner want to pray,

  A woman want to fall in love

  For could that Heartbreak play!

  He was just a striplin'

  But he tasted life real deep

  And traveled down some dusty roads

  On his tired calloused feet.

  No one knew his kinfolk

  Or why he grew so sad

  Though it put that touch o' magic

  In the talent that he had.

  Although his face was homely

  Women couldn't stay away,

  But he always turned away from them

  So they called him 'Heartbreak Clay'

  And 'cause his songs could touch ya

  When you'd thought you'd heard it all,

  But the tears'd find your eyes again

  When you heard ol' Heartbreak call . . .

  "I guess I should be happy

  For I'm livin' life complete,

  An' I got the worl' before me,

  An' I got my ol' flat feet,

  But the world seems mighty lonely

  An' my feets, they's ol' and tired.

  All the good life's left behin' me.

  All the magic's done retired.

  "The girl I love's behin' me

  And I won' see her again.

  The flowers don' smell purty

  And the sunshine's growin' dim,

  But I hope to have one comfort, though,

  Long past my dyin' day.

  They'll say, 'He wasn't much to know,'

  But, man, that boy could play!'"

  This bluesman, just a kid now,

  Was heard of, far and wide,

  But he never saw that girl again

  He'd hankered for a bride.

  They say he beat the Devil,

  But on that I couldn't say

  'Cept I know ol' Clay'd beat 'im

  If the Devil chose to play.

  At twenty-four short years, he died.

  Eight years he'd ruled the blues.

  He died in that ol' mangy shirt

  And them worn dusty shoes.

  I hope that he be happy

  With the things that folks here say.

  They don't say much about 'im, 'cept.

  "By God, that boy could play!"

  "Song of the Victim/Victor" was prompted by Sting's "Moon Over Bourbon Street" as I played with trying to capture the mindset of a willing victim and a reluctant defiler. This is one of several poems where I played contrasting views but in the same pattern.

  Song of the Victim

  Is he there at the window?

  Is he there at the door?

  Will he come as the wind blows

  As he has before?

  I pray he's not coming,

  That he'll let me be,

  And pray—oh, I'm praying—

  That he'll come to me!

  I know it is madness,

  This lust and this fear,

  This craving, this sadness

  As I hold him dear.

  One can't love a demon,

  Yet, demon, I do!

  I pray for your absence

  As I pray for you.

  The first night he tasted—

  Such agonized joy!—

  And now I grow wasted,

  His servant, his toy.

  I love him! I love him!

  And I am afraid;

  I know that he loves me

  And yet I'm betrayed.

  I'll soon be his demon

  For I'll stalk the night:

  The moonlight, my heaven,

  My terror, the light.

  This fate that I fear so

  Yet cannot deny

  For I love this demon

  Who haunts the night sky.

  He's coming! O rapture!

  O fabulous pain!

  As gently he captures

  My throat once again.

  At last, I am happy

  And shed all control.

  I love you my devil.

  I give you my soul.

  Song of the Victor

  I stand in the garden

  And stare at the light,

  Stare at the window

  I came for tonight.

  I know she is waiting

  And know I will stay

  But pray—oh, I'm praying—

  That I go away!

  To pray, oh, how foolish,

  For God loves me
not

  As I am the creature

  The blesséd forgot,

  And I curse the good ones

  Like her up above . . .

  And curse my own actions:

  This woman I love.

  I wish I could leave her

  For I bleed her soul—

  She has no protection

  And I, no control.

  I love her! I love her!

  I cause her such pain.

  I leave, hope forever

  Yet come back again!

  I know I must leave her

  Before it's too late

  But love and my nature

  Decided our fate!

  She loves me! She trusts me!

  And I such a fool!

  I know what is must be;

  I know all the rules.

  Now, I'm at the window.

  She says, "I've no fear.

  I give you my soul now,

  My lover, my dear."

  I cannot resist this,

  My innocent maid

  Who begs for my demon kiss . . .

  And I am afraid.

  Rewriting stories to suit me

  When I say stories, what I usually mean are movies, frequently crappy movies that had some aspect that intrigued me and, then, didn't end or go the way I wanted them to. One exception to this is my first poem here, "Memtaz Mahal" which was first inspired by a magazine commercial for some perfume, with the gorgeous Taj Mahal as a backdrop and a line about a romance that extended beyond death. I was (and am) a sucker for stuff like that. I also think the building is among the most beautiful in the world. But, throw in a romantic story and I'm sold. My parents' Encyclopedia Britannica provided the facts. Then, I heard a story about a great-great-uncle of mine, who'd hidden out so he could spend the night at the Taj Mahal, but was struck some time as he was wandering the grounds that he'd intruded on something very personal, so he turned himself in when the place reopened in the morning. With that input, I sat down and wrote "Memtaz Mahal" in less than an hour. My best work tends to come in a rush.

  Memtaz Mahal

  I found my great discovery

  On a tattered Indian script,

  An overlookéd diary

  In a small Islamic crypt.

  The words had waited centuries

  To tell a monumental tale

  About a life that could not please

  About a love that could not pale

  About a tomb of glowing white,

  About the years of loveless night. . .

  Arjumand, beloved Memtaz,

  I wonder, can you hear me?

  He holds me in the sight of Taj

  In hopes to further sear me

  But harm me more my son cannot,

  Though he tried to break my heart.

  The agony, that long he's sought,

  Long since, tore me apart.

  O wife! How can he hurt me more

  Than turning on his father?

  He hates this father from Lehore . . .

  And remembers not his mother.

  O answer not, my treasured Mem,

  I know the awful reason:

  Not from your gentleness it stems

  But from his father's treason.

  Ambitious, too, I always was

  And hurt my father, too.

  I would not have changed, Memtaz

  Had it not been for you.

  Estranged from him four lonely years

  I tried to steal his power,

  'Til finally, through your loving tears,

  We met that fateful hour.

  At last, we were rejoined as you

  Are joined with me forever.

  Memtaz, my love, what can I do?

  Can death indeed dissever?

  No! I shan't believe you gone!

  You would not go away!

  You said if I were right or wrong . . .

  You promised you would stay.

  But, lo, my hand is not that strong.

  No more I'll write this day.

  Memtaz, I call again for you

  On this forgotten page.

  Please tell me if my doubts are true,

  Is war not wrong to wage?

  When you were gone, much war was fought,

  But little did we gain.

  Our India is so distraught;

  Our people dream in pain.

  'Most everything our soldiers took

  Returned to foreign hands.

  So little have I brought them:

  Books . . . and anguish for the land—

  And Taj Mahal for you, my pet.

  They're all I have bestowed:

  The Taj, so people won't forget

  The gentleness you showed.

  Yet, literature can't pay the wives

  For husbands lost in war.

  What right have I to gold and lives

  No matter what they're for?

  I'm wrong! Your tomb of beauty's worth

  Four hundred lakh of rupees,

  Four thousand; there's no price on earth

  Too high for what I see.

  The wars were wrong, but beauty right,

  For tomb and books and more.

  Inside, I knew 'twas wrong to fight

  And make my people poor,

  But love and beauty cleanse the soul,

  And make it clean and pure:

  Your tomb is like a glistening shoal,

  And, Mem, it will endure.

  So, though my hand has lost control,

  My mind is finally sure.

  Memtaz, our son, he keeps me still.

  For five long years I'm here,

  And, darling, even yet I'm ill;

  It worsens every year.

  He stole my throne when I was weak,

  My body racked with pain,

  And blind ambition, still it speaks

  In every action plain.

  Three other sons, they fought as well,

  Caught in ambitious web,

  Dara, Murad and Sha repelled,

  Repressed by Augrangzeb.

  Where they are now, I do know not

  Inside my prison walls,

  Yet, always, whether cold or hot,

  I look to Taj Mahal.

  But, precious one, I feel regret,

  And, darling, can you tell?

  Is it wrong to murder yet

  The awful infidel?

  For every year I reigned alone,

  Which number twenty-seven,

  I made each man and child atone

  Who looked not to my heaven.

  My son is even worse, I found

  Inflicting death and pain,

  Yet, now this harshness seems unsound

  As if he were insane.

  And as I think this startling thought,

  I realize, I was too:

  I tortured infidel I caught.

  That's not what you would do.

  I remember what you told me:

  "Everyone has right to thought."

  'Tis not 'til it's too late I see

  That, then, I heard you not.

  You felt each man should choose to pray

  In any way he cared,

  But, when death carried you away,

  My thinking was impaired.

  In pain, I struck the infidel

  Through anger at your loss.

  Through grief, I used my people

  And I never counted cost.

  Memtaz, I did not rule it right,

  Still mourning for my wife;

  Though I had chance to reach for light,

  I wasted all my life.

  Memtaz, my love, at last I see,

  I so apologize.

  If only you had been with me .. .

  Memtaz, you were so wise,

  But now, what is, so it must be,

  And I must dry my eyes.

  Memtaz, this is my final call;

  Just barely can I write.

  My only s
trength is Taj Mahal

  That glistens, brilliant white.

  I miss you so, beloved Mem,

  Much more than you could know:

  With papered words and splintered pen,

  There's no way I can show. . .

  When I was king, I made a tomb

  To demonstrate my woe.

  I hoped that in each marbled room,

  My mourning, it would show.

  Memtaz, if you are now with me,

  My love lives in the tomb;

  It seeps through every block you see,

  Suffusing every room.

  Two and twenty years I spent

  Creating Taj Mahal,

  And all the love within me went

  Into each marble wall.

  But, what makes it much more dear

  Than any work I've done

  Is that, in Taj Mahal, you're here

  And, someday, we'll be one.

  So much like you, it seems to be;

  Its grace comes close to yours.

  In it, your lovely face I see,

  And so my spirit soars.

  My sun, my moon . . . my memories

  Depict you as you were:

  So young, so kind, so quick to please;

  Oh, yes, I remember her . . .

  For nineteen years, you kept me young

  When others ceased to care.

  Immersed in light was I among

  The blessings you would share,

  The children you held to your heart

  Who now forget your name,

  But always you would take their part—

  Well, you are not to blame!

  Too short your life, too short the time

  You spent right by my side.

  Without you, life was not sublime,

  No matter where I hide.

  And yet, you have not left me, for,

  In the darkness of the night,

  I hear your cherished voice once more,

  Still so soft and light.

  "Jehan, my shah," I hear it sing,

  "One day, we will be one.

  In heaven, will our laughter ring

  While we dance in the sun."

  Then I will wake so happy that

  Once more I see your face,

  And you will vanish like a cat

  With walls left in your place.

  Arjumand Benu Begum, my wife,

  My own Memtaz Mahal,

  Glad am I to give my life

  Whene'er you give the call . . .

  I read the final lingering words

  And felt tears sting my eyes.

  Could ever any other birds

  Have tried to fly so high?

  I knew I had intruded

  Where I had no place to tread.

  I felt as though I sinned a sin,

  Invading lovers dead.

  The diary I then replaced

  In the tiny hidden room,

  And, when it was, again, encased,

  I ventured to her tomb.

  When I was there, I placed my hand

  On its smooth marble wall,

  And finally I could understand

  Why he loved the Taj Mahal,

  And why, when finally death did call

  His face was turned to Taj Mahal.

  Another exception to the bad movies sparks "good" idea theme that runs rampant through this section is this, next poem which was sparked off by, instead, bad books and my attempt to duplicate the improbable mindset of the protagonists in Flowers in the Attic. Please remember, I was a teenager.