Musings of a Nascent Poet

by Stephanie Barr

  Betrayal

  She wore a crown of diamonds

  On that fair and golden head.

  Rings were on her fingers,

  Satin sheets were on her bed.

  Her body dripped with jewels,

  Emerald green and ruby red.

  But, has she ever had a heart

  And has it ever bled?

  Nothing hurts like shattered trust,

  Betrayal's deepest pain,

  And no one knows the agony

  One finds in love's refrain.

  "I love you so," she told me,

  And my hopes I would regain,

  But nothing now will ease the hurt

  Or cleanse away the stain.

  Did she ever love us?

  I believed her! I was blind.

  I couldn't see the scheming

  That went on inside that mind.

  How quickly do our memories fade

  As time moves to unwind.

  I trusted so that woman's heart,

  So certain what I'd find.

  But how can fortune cause to turn

  From love a mother's sight

  Or leave her children all alone

  To face the heartless night,

  To wish that they would disappear

  And go where'er they might,

  To lock those infants in a cage

  Kept far from warmth and light?

  Perhaps God can forgive you

  For the awful things you do.

  Perhaps your gems are worth

  The many horrors we've gone through.

  Will your chains be of diamonds,

  Opal fire and sapphire blue?

  I hope He can have mercy,

  But I damn you . . . too late to.

  And now for the movies. These were largely written in my college years and frequently reflect, perhaps, too much time on my hands. For example, this poem, "Henriette and Casanova" is a direct result of the TV miniseries version of Casanova (I think the one with Richard Chamberlain from 1987). In any case, it was a version fairly focused on his fumbled pairing with his otherwise one true love. Did I mention I was a sucker for stuff like that?

  Henriette and Casanova

  He'd known so many women

  'Fore he met his Henriette,

  And he cherished all those women

  While he felt not one regret,

  But Henriette was everything

  He loved those women for.

  He wanted so to marry her,

  To worship and adore.

  She loved this sweet ingenious man

  Who held all women dear,

  But even as she loved him,

  Her heart held still one fear:

  That she was just another face

  Of many he had known,

  That she was just another oat

  Among the ones he'd sown. . .

  He gambled off his purse that night

  'Til naught of it remained,

  Then gambled off a lady's coin

  Not asking what she claimed,

  Then claim she did that what he owed

  Be paid but not with gold,

  And, though, at first, resist he did,

  He soon agreed to hold—

  Dear God! 'Twas his own Henriette

  Who'd put him to the test

  And left him with a couple words

  That would not let him rest:

  "You also will forget

  Your Henriette."

  The words carved in the window

  In the bedroom that they shared,

  Where she had truly loved him,

  Where he had truly cared.

  He did not need to see them;

  They were branded on his heart,

  But anguish could not kill this man. . .

  Just tear his dreams apart.

  In Venice, did his name grow famed,

  Reputation grow less bright.

  He squandered fortunes through the day

  And others' wives at night,

  But touched no woman 'gainst her will,

  Just never told her, "No."

  They loved him for his worship,

  For the reverence he'd bestow,

  But others felt no pleasure

  In the role this lover played

  And sent the man to prison

  For the piper must be paid.

  The lover's heart could not be caged,

  Nor was this man a fool—

  Escaping where none had before

  With clever makeshift tools,

  Then made his way abroad again

  While Europe learned his name,

  But often he would stop, reflect,

  Amidst his growing fame:

  "I never will forget,

  Dear Henriette."

  He still was in such great demand

  That lessened naught with time,

  But mayors were not welcoming

  For he'd not toe the line.

  He traveled more, for cities were

  More closed to tarnished fame,

  Though women came as quickly

  When he told each one his name.

  Still, they held their magic

  For he could not love them less;

  For all of them, so beautiful,

  He could but give his best.

  He aged, but just in some ways,

  For, to women, he seemed young,

  But husbands thought him reprobate

  And farewells were quickly sung.

  He wandered, barely stopping,

  Always living on the edge,

  But some woman always found him:

  For every pit, he found a ledge.

  It wasn't, though, because of fame

  They sought him, oh, so much;

  To him, they all were ladies

  And he treated them as such.

  Then, one day, he met someone

  To remind him of one lost,

  Of one test he could only fail

  And what that failure cost:

  "I never could forget

  My Henriette."

  Daughter led to mother:

  Henriette, the maid he'd known

  For him, he stood astonished:

  How beautiful she'd grown!

  She saw, now, what the secret was

  That made the women throng;

  It wasn't just the azure eyes

  Nor arms so lean and strong.

  He felt each woman beautiful,

  From the bottom of his soul,

  And, to such goddesses as these,

  How could he keep control?

  He worshiped at the temple

  Known as "woman" to his heart,

  And cherished every word they spoke,

  Adored their every part,

  Entranced by every laugh they sang,

  The sparkle in each eye,

  Their smiles, their skin, their gentle touch,

  Their warm contented sighs.

  'Twas true, though, Henriette he loved

  Like none he'd ever known;

  Each woman had her moment, though,

  Upon his lofty throne.

  He never was designing.

  His regard was too sincere.

  He loved her; could he help

  That every woman he'd revere?

  "Do you ever feel regret,

  Sweet Henriette?"

  "Goodbye, dear Casanova,"

  Did she say before she left,

  "I'll always always love you

  Though, of love, you're not bereft."

  He kissed her hand one final time,

  Then watched her leave, at last,

  The brightest light of all his stars,

  That glimmer from the past.

  Then, he grew old, as legend do,

  'Til few recalled his name

  And even less connected him

  With his once mighty fame.

  Women smiled now at his kindness

 
; And respected him for grey,

  But didn't long to share his bed—

  Ah, joys of yesterday!

  But women can be worshipped

  Just by watching how they smile,

  By listening to their laughter,

  Their flash, their joy, their style.

  His love affair with all their race,

  The most successful yet,

  Well, though he'd not been rich or proud,

  He had so few regrets.

  No man had loved as he had

  Nor been loved so in return,

  And as he grows to deathly age,

  One thought remains to burn:

  "Could Casanova e'er forget

  His own beloved Henriette?"

  I admit, I liked the movie Lady Jane with Helena Bonham Carter and Cary Elwes. Not for the great historical accuracy (better than some, but whew, pretty romanticized) but for the romance that came out of a forced wedding. Yep, I fell for it and did my part by writing final letters for the tragic pair.

  To Guildford

  My darling dearest Guildford,

  Truest prince in deed and heart,

  And, oh, I'm so tormented

  That, once more, we are apart.

  The times we were together

  Were so golden through your smile,

  Your laughter and your vision

  That helped mold our short-lived style.

  Oh, darling, only I know

  Of the depths inside you feel

  For the homeless, for the hopeless

  For the branded's bloody seal.

  Who'd think that this debaucher

  Dreamed to halt his father's greed,

  Dreamed hills of silver shillings

  And of times that poor won't bleed.

  Dear Guildford, how I love you!

  You're the strength we almost were,

  The wisdom, shrewd—the lion,

  So brave, so strong, so sure.

  Although our ends are different

  Could my heart know any pain?

  For soon we'll stand together . . .

  God, I love you . . .

  Lady Jane

  To Jane

  Dear Jane, my heart's own darling,

  I'm so sorry you shall die,

  But I'll see you in the next life;

  No one loves as much as I.

  'Twas my prompting now that kills you

  For I thought that times could change

  If you held queenly power—

  A dreamer's dreams are strange.

  You had no way of knowing,

  Oh so young, my Lady Jane,

  With heart as pure as crystal

  Unafraid of death or pain.

  Now we, a nine days wonder,

  Are to die; I should have known

  That nobles don't love justice

  If it steals aught from their own.

  But, Jane, my little dreamer,

  Who, forever, I'll soon join,

  Whose greatest royal triumph

  Was a tiny silver coin,

  Jane, my dainty darling,

  I'll be with you e'er again . . .

  I sign myself your Guildford

  For I love you, Lady Jane.

  Another movie I enjoyed for reasons I'm not entirely sure I could articulate was Young Sherlock Holmes. Well, I do like to enjoy the Holmes' stories in general (and love BBC's recent series, though I wrote this long long ago) and I've always enjoyed Sherlock's eccentricity. I identify with it. But the movie I note here had a tragic undertone in the fleeting love story that really captured my interest. Like the last poem, this poem does one of my favorite things: plays with a point of view that intrigues me and give me a chance to imagine myself in those shoes.

  Sherlock's Song

  What others would not give

  To own the skills that I possess:

  An intelligence, unrivalled,

  That longs to weigh, assess,

  That find's each puzzle simple,

  Each challenge just a game,

  That led me to adventures,

  To glory and to fame.

  Yes, I'd been blessed with talents

  Far beyond the common man

  With all within my power—

  Save one thing could I command.

  The Gods who bless so lavishly,

  They find ways to atone

  And took my dear Elizabeth

  To leave me here alone.

  My skills were such that I could choose

  Of any life to lead.

  Professions all were free to me;

  My mind blessed every seed,

  But when asked my ambition,

  I could give but one reply,

  For but one dream can touch a man,

  A man as blessed as I.

  I wished that she be near me,

  That she always grace my side,

  And, though I didn't name her,

  I meant her for my bride.

  Surely, Gods, they knew this—

  Are Gods' hearts carved of stone?

  I meant her when I spoke then:

  "To never be alone."

  They knew. Gods love to torture

  Those on whom Their gifts bestowed,

  And showed me to my heaven

  In those eyes that softly glowed.

  Elizabeth, my soul-mate,

  Her heart, my one desire,

  Who loved me to my very depths

  And set my soul on fire.

  Perhaps if I had named her,

  Dear ambition of my heart,

  Would she still stand beside me

  Or would we still love apart?

  My soul grew warm with promise,

  Then, in one second, joy had flown

  For gone was my Elizabeth

  And I was left alone.

  They stole you, hurt you, killed you,

  But left me here in pain,

  With all my gifts but longing for

  The one I can't regain.

  My promise found fruition;

  My fame grew far and wide.

  And I found notoriety

  With Watson at my side.

  But Watson is a friend, not love,

  And I grew, incomplete,

  With Watson's mild companionship

  And women at my feet—

  Women, ha! They chased me

  But found my heart as stone.

  They could not match Elizabeth

  And I remained alone.

  My career has been so perfect.

  I'm revered by all I know,

  But all of that is nothing

  Just a sad man's lonely show,

  While waiting for a happiness

  From death as yet unknown

  When we will meet, Elizabeth,

  And I won't be alone.

  There's a certain irony in that, those movies I actually liked least or found least compelling often sparked some of my longest and most elaborate epics. In this case, I kid you not, Conan the Barbarian. As a teenager (high school), I was very disappointed that Conan could carry on without her. So, I "fixed" it.

  Tanschel and Traig

  Come close, minstrel, and listen;

  I've a legend here to tell.

  Then I'll want you to retell it

  And you must retell it well.

  There are many tales of heroes

  Regaled to young and old;

  My greater pair of heroes

  Must so have their story told.

  And, so, you must recite it

  To, perhaps, instill a token,

  To make a hero just like those

  About whom you have spoken.

  Write their song! Sing their deeds!

  And maybe bloom a hero's seed.

  In a world of thieves and brutes,

  She was the thief of thieves.

  She was most mighty at a time

  When one who fights well lives.

  They called Tanschel an Amazon,<
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  A maid who knew her might,

  And cutthroats made a path for her

  For they knew how she could fight.

  In hand to hand, her iron grip

  Could send a man to Hell;

  No man could use a knife as she

  Nor send shafts half so well.

  Her speedy dodge, her lightning strike,

  Her sword a streak of sun,

  And those who faced this warrior-maid

  Were slain when she had done.

  And, in her craft of thievery,

  She had attained the height;

  Silently, she'd in and out

  With no one catching sight.

  Tanschel, though, had no murderer's look

  To match her ruthless ways.

  Most thought her cursed, a demon

  Hiding with an angel's face.

  Her form was tall and slender;

  She didn't look that strong,

  But many an opponent died

  Realizing he was wrong.

  However, her agility

  Was plain to every eye;

  Her fighting and her sultry walk

  Proclaimed her young and spry.

  Her luscious form could tempt a saint

  And make procurers drool

  With thoughts of that appealing flesh

  Underneath their rule.

  Above this almost perfect form,

  Floating fine and light,

  A silky straight cascade of hair

  Of the shade of golden-white.

  The face beneath that honeyed frame,

  That flowed down, shoulder-length,

  Held beauty that drove grown men wild

  And helped take away their strength.

  Two soulful eyes held court in it,

  Though they were often cold

  To those who would come closer,

  But few dared to be so bold.

  Soft full lips of salmon pink,

  Her teeth, so white and smooth,

  Her angled cheeks caused fever

  Her soft skin could not soothe.

  One jewel only did she wear,

  And never was apart,

  For always hung around her neck

  A priceless ruby heart.

  And, so, she was the siren's song

  With beauty's soft refrain,

  But keeping all the men away

  By means of death and pain.

  One touch upon her beck'ning hair

  Could cause a fellow's death;

  An Amazon, she slept alone

  And never shared her breath.

  One day in the drinking house,

  She walked her graceful glide

  That with each smooth and flowing step

  Revealed a milky thigh,

  But, there in her favorite spot,

  A man she did not know

  And yet he made her skin grow hot

  As she began to glow.

  What had pricked her perfect skin,

  Every nerve a-wrack?

  Danger, could it be, or spells?

  Or just a stranger's back?

 

  This back, so broad to stun the mind,

  And limbs of seasoned oak;

  He'd shame a team of oxen

  If they put him at the yoke.

  Thick and oily chestnut hair

  Laid on shoulders, best she'd seen,

  But reason not enough it was

  To make her senses keen.