For Fair Welcoming

I.

I wait, Mignon, by the kitchen stair,
while you listen to the aprons chide.
While you sit in the dining room chair
and imagine yourself gone, untied,
I envision the world, long and wide.
Together, our visions flash and flare;
alone, they are more convincing still.
I like waiting--the world is untried!
The view from the stair looks past the hill!


II.

If you are trapped in the air--
if they watch you with great care--
if this is all that you dare,
I will wait for you outside,
welcoming you with more rare
welcome to wear,
as you did me, starry-eyed.
Even with no fruit to bear,
I'm glad to swear
to you my oath to abide,
because I would rather share
this daydream with you than pair
my joy in you with despair
in circumstances of pride.
If you are trapped in the air--
if they watch you with great care--
if this is all that you dare--
I will wait for you outside.


III.

Fair as are the worlds that fill
the roads we ride,
Fair Welcome is far more fair.
In him, all my own dead chill
I will confide.
Fair as are the worlds that fill
the roads we ride,
I like better the soft thrill
of tears that slide
down his cheek, into his hair.
Fair as are the worlds that fill
the roads we ride,
Fair Welcome is far more fair.

Formes Fixes: Olivier de Vienne

Rondeau

Telling your proud commander,
"You are a fool!"
ought to have been a danger,
but I, who heard this slander,
laughed, as my rule.
Telling your proud commander,
"You are a fool!",
scolding, you showed me grander
tactics to cool
heads and defeat the stranger.
Telling your proud commander,
"You are a fool!"
ought to have been a danger...


Virelai

Here, it doesn't signify
that two minutes back, a cry
went between us, sharp and shy:
in a battle, we are one.
Just another squabble--why
get girlish, sigh
in the quietness, and shun
your unruly friend? Apply
that mercy: try
to ignore what's past and done.
You are pierced by spears, and by
my bravado; I will fly
to you with no thought of my
petty anger: there is none.
Here, it doesn't signify
that two minutes back, a cry
went between us, sharp and shy:
in a battle, we are one.


Ballade

Honestly, I believe I never felt
pain for another like the way I cried
(and we will scrape the demons off the pelt
covering Earth--their treason and my pride)
when it was you who spoke my name and died.
Spain spun, its hinges loosened as you dealt
words ever poised and justice. I believed
I would not ever be without my guide...
but, as it happens, I was not long grieved.

For Dulce

Virelai

Every moment of my fate
works on me with shame and hate:
this because I did not wait
but accepted second best,
and I hate and thank the trait
that rules of late,
sensible, resigned, unblessed,
that prevents with rapid rate
of verbal freight
all I want at my behest--
and I wanted her to bait
fates and fairies as my mate.
Now I am no longer great,
which I know and have confessed.
Every moment of my fate
works on me with shame and hate:
this because I did not wait
but accepted second best.


Rondeau

Everyone loves to love her;
everyone aims,
frantic, for her attention.
Everyone tries to shove her
into his games--
everyone loves to love her.
Everyone aims
to put themselves above her,
action that names
any I wouldn't mention.
Everyone loves to love her;
everyone aims,
frantic, for her attention.


Ballade

Everyone knows the blood and heat that tease
under the skin that sheathes her frozen bones.
Everyone knows that I would like to seize
everything my imagined darling owns--
but I would never risk her pouts and moans.
Everyone knows how hard I work to please,
answering strictness with a cheerful fist.
None of my labors can repay my loans;
everyone knows that she does not exist.

Formes Fixes for Hebe and Ganymède

Rondeau

I love to make love to Hebe,
kissing her skin,
for she is like Ganymède
and ever untouched, as Phoebe.

Starting again,
I love to make love to Hebe.

Kissing her skin
leaves all of her senses sleepy.

That's when I win.

Because I am dead,
I love to make love to Hebe,
kissing her skin,
for she is like Ganymède.


Ballade

Ganymède lives inside a picture book.
No one could reach to take his outstretched hand.
Even from other novels, heroes shook,
leaving the war campaigns that they had planned,
sighing for his idyllic summer land.
If it is breakable, I'll break it. Look!
I am like Roland; I will be like Zeus.
I am the one to take him where I stand;
I am the one to make his leash a noose.


Virelai

After I have had a drink
of your dark, untainted ink,
Cupbearer, oh, do you think
there will be enough for more?

Scurry down your kitchen sink
inside the chink:
is there much of it in store?

Will you shrivel up and shrink
or rot and stink
if I drain you to the core?

Give me drafts that won't unkink,
don't run dry, and never blink;
always more--and you're the link,
you're the one whom I adore.

After I have had a drink
of your dark, untainted ink,
Cupbearer, oh, do you think
there will be enough for more?

Formes Fixes

I. Virelai

Irving damn Berlin was right:
the boy I marry must be white
and pink as nurseries and quite
as pure and try as hard to please.
The boy I cradle sharp and tight
within my sight
must be as warm as gentle seas.
His polished nails will shine in light,
his hair full-bright
with flowers from the summer trees.
A doll to carry, soft and slight,
a kitten purring through its fright,
satin, lace, and stars and night:
the boy I marry must be these.
As usual, the man was right:
the boy I marry must be white
and pink as nurseries and quite
as pure and try as hard to please.


II. Rondeau

The boys who are sweet and pretty
he says are lies.
It hurts him, but I still want them.
My insults will draw his pity,
not his disguise.
The boys who are sweet and pretty
he says are lies.
He can't be as smitten, witty,
constant, or wise;
I know, and I hate to flaunt them.
The boys who are sweet and pretty
he says are lies.
It hurts him, but I still want them.


III. Ballade

I cannot answer this in a ballade:
it is like armor on Akhilleus’ heel
(though all the while, he never was a god—
nor was Patroklos, strong as his appeal);
it is like lightless light, insensate feel,
anhydrous water, genuine façade.
And who can say that there was no mistake
in our creation or in our ordeal?
And who can say we will not fall and break?

Formes Fixes

I. Ballade

Since, in a way, he always will be mine,
and in another, he can never be,
I have been watching him across this line
with fascination that becomes the key
that can transcend the lock forbidding me
from the perfection that infects my spine
with heated shivers; but his soft allure
must be resisted--if my soul were free,
then maybe I would find he were not pure.


II. Virelai

I know my beloved though
we have never met below
daylight's canopy; I know
how my soul goes out to him.
I hear every catch to slow
his voice's flow,
feel the trembling of each limb,
see the way his pupils grow
as daydreams glow,
know the story of each whim,
follow the uncertain blow
mixed with passion in a show
of bravado, let him go
slack against me, yielding, slim--
I know my beloved though
we have never met below
daylight's canopy; I know
how my soul goes out to him.


III. Rondeau

No matter how much I would, I
don't stay my hand,
can't stop my desire to haunt him.
I want what is good. How could I
leave it unplanned?
No matter how much I would, I
can't stop my desire to haunt him.
If all that exists is good, I
can't understand
why I am wrong to want him.
No matter how much I would, I
don't stay my hand,
can't stop my desire to haunt him.

The Nixy

I. Ballade

I can feel everything there is to feel:
slow-moving waves within the weedy pond,
hands brushing, soft against my wrist and heel,
graspings and snatchings of determined frond;
sympathy, guilt, and joy make me respond.
All of the pain you shared with me was real:
do not forget how I returned your cry.
Do not forget the forging of our bond.
Do not dismiss me; do not pass me by.


II. Rondeau

Until my two arms enfold you,
I will wait on,
too powerless just to take you.
I cannot reach out to hold you
while you are gone.
Until my two arms enfold you,
I will wait on.
Will you not do what I told you
when you were drawn
from waters that tried to break you?
Until my two arms enfold you,
I will wait on,
too powerless just to take you.


III. Virelai

They cannot release their sighs
where the soundless water lies,
but their cold and lifeless eyes
still reproach each time I kill.
I would like to leave this guise.
Stop me and rise
if you have a sturdy will!
Yet another victim dies,
soul-pillaged, wise,
and I watch him in the chill,
but the ruling still applies,
given me by Nature's ties.
I endure their frightened cries
and am punished for it still.
They cannot release their sighs
where the soundless water lies,
but their cold and lifeless eyes
still reproach each time I kill.


IV. Villanelle

Cum fossa et furca they fall.
I watch them drown,
and I hold their legs as they sprawl,
for I am the undertow’s doll.
I force them down.
Cum fossa et furca they fall.
The cold slows their hearts to a crawl.
I kiss each frown,
and I hold their legs as they sprawl.
The world is increasingly small,
a silent town.
Cum fossa et furca they fall.
They swallow and try to recall
their old renown,
and I hold their legs as they sprawl.
They struggle to try to forestall
the pond-scum crown.
Cum fossa et furca they fall,
and I hold their legs as they sprawl.

Violence

I. Rondeau

She's panting and softly crying
(do it again),
so faithful and so unknowing,
and she doesn't see she's dying
(hasn't she been?).
She's panting and softly crying
(do it again),
but I know that I'm not lying
(are we but men?)
when taking her hand and showing.
She's panting and softly crying
(do it again),
so faithful and so unknowing.


II. Virelai

Beautiful, exciting, dead:
pangs of hunger, pangs of dread,
when I think pollute my head
with the things I think I did

when I pinned her to the bed--
the way she pled
for the secrets that I hid

on her body; when I said
how I have bled
in the darkness; when I rid

all my soul of words that sped,
understood by her; I led
her to warmth, and then I fed
on her heart as I was bid.

Beautiful, exciting, dead:
pangs of hunger, pangs of dread,
when I think pollute my head
with the things I think I did.


III. Ballade

I do not know what violence to do
to ever pay for all that I have done.
I cannot speak; I could not punish you
as I exposed my secrets to the sun,
running as far as ever I could run.
Shall I cut deeply, splitting into two?
Shall I expose my heart and hands to pain?
I have lost everything that I have won;
now I must offer everything I gain.

French Formes Fixes for a Fairy Tale Frog

Rondeau.

My Princess, why balk at kissing
hideous frogs?
Their lips are as sweet as power.
Amidst all the painful hissing,
flattery slogs.
My Princess, why balk at kissing
hideous frogs?
The worship, the gifts you're missing
wait in the bogs
for you and your half-built tower.
My Princess, why balk at kissing
hideous frogs?
Their lips are as sweet as power.

As many as you can gather
is what you need,
the faster to build your plunder,
for out of the slime, they slather,
pander, and cede.
As many as you can gather
is what you need.
Unless there's a man you'd rather
rescue than bleed,
kiss them and steal their wonder.
As many as you can gather
is what you need,
the faster to build your plunder.


Ballade.

If you look deep into his golden eyes,
you might decide he's really rather cute.
When he looks up and sighs one of those sighs,
you may still argue, but your fears are moot;
no one on earth believes that he's a brute.
Test him with whims, and see how hard he tries,
and know that when his need for you has gone,
you'll wish you'd listened and had followed suit,
though he is good and may remain your pawn.


Virelai.

Motivation to do right
often issues from the fright
that you feel when others might
learn if you are false or true.

Also, if you're in the sight
of someone quite
powerful, the things you do

may get you rewards, or bright,
commending light,
or a crowd that worships you.

(I might also say: to fight
for what's good can shorten night,
gladden you, put fear to flight--
but these are, you think, your due...)

Motivation to do right
often issues from the fright
that you feel when others might
learn if you are false or true.

Four Poems for Ganymede in French Renaissance Form

Rondeau.

I wish I could be you, truly
taking your place,
be wonderful as a duty.
I envy the curls, unruly,
stroking your face.
I wish I could be you, truly
taking your place.
I want to be lovely, duly
covet your grace
and worship your godly beauty.
I wish I could be you, truly
taking your place,
be wonderful as a duty.


Virelai.

Tell, what does it mean to be
orbiting the Father’s free
love? And did you try to flee?
Of these wonders, do you tire?
Does it please you still to see
that you were the
object of his heartsick fire?
Is there power, knowing he
moves earth and sea
just to quench your whim’s desire?
Is it worth its galling fee?
When you’re dandled on his knee,
can you grow, like star, like tree?
Must you always call him Sire?
Tell, what does it mean to be
orbiting the Father’s free
love? And did you try to flee?
Of these wonders, do you tire?


Villanelle.

Around, around, around you go,
following close for the heavens’ glory-gift,
reflecting back the Father’s glow.
The red, like blood, a constant flow,
covering you like it did that day, thus, swift,
around, around, around you go.
The path you travel lets you show
all of his glory. It shines on you; you drift,
reflecting back the Father’s glow.
You’re treated like a child, you know;
know that at least he adores you and will shift.
Around, around, around you go.
How sad the child who’s weak and low,
yet has a lover who does not give or lift.
Reflecting back the Father’s glow,
you pity them, and, loving, grow
in every beam that he gives you to sift.
Around, around, around you go,
reflecting back the Father’s glow.


Ballade.

You might have been a hundred other things
if he had left you there to tend your sheep:
perhaps the brave progenitor of kings,
perhaps a peaceful prince who’d sow and reap
and sing his cattle to a quiet sleep.
Perhaps your heart would feel its share of stings,
and someone strong would leave you, torn and wrecked,
and all the innocence and youth you keep
turn to a need to comfort and protect.

You might have found an object of your own,
who could receive the presence of your soul,
all your adoring glances, every tone
of burning anguish. You might play this rôle
like you were born to it and reach your goal.
Instead, he froze you, and though time has flown
since then, you’ve kept the energy of youth,
all its enthusiasm, and the toll
for such a road as rape is losing truth.

New Shoes

I. Virelai

Tempted by a branch of gold,
their ignoble traitor strolled
through the safety of their fold
to their hidden basement shrine.

Elder Sister went to scold
when Baby told
that she caught a quiet sign—

someone, following, patrolled,
and they were sold.
Sister said that all was fine.

Traitors both were they, and bold.
He their secret would not hold,
but the other was more cold:
Baby would not give him wine.

Tempted by a branch of gold,
their ignoble traitor strolled
through the safety of their fold
to their hidden basement shrine.


II. Rondeau

The lights in the hall are burning
yellows and pinks,
sodden with heavy gladness.
The twenty-four bodies churning
fill up the chinks.
The lights in the hall are burning
yellows and pinks,
but none of the crowd are learning.
Poised as a lynx,
their Time waits to cull their badness.
The lights in the hall are burning
yellows and pinks,
sodden with heavy gladness.

I've just got to keep on turning;
that's what she thinks.
I don't have to stop this madness.
New shoes and new suitors yearning—
always more drinks—
I've just got to keep on turning;
that's what she thinks.
The future is undiscerning;
silent, it blinks,
and why think two times of sadness?
I've just got to keep on turning;
that's what she thinks.
I don't have to stop this madness.


III. Ballade

Their signal, the eleventh chime, has rung;
the hour begins to witch the hallowed air.
A dozen stars will flicker where they're flung;
a dozen girls step down the creaking stair.
A crack of branches—secret torches flare—
all twenty-four are slippers fashioned young
from the best silk from caravan and djinn.
Waiting, twelve boats are in the water there;
breathless, a thousand men wait to begin.

Why do you wait here? asks an inner tongue,
and the young men reply to it with care:
This place has life, and we before had clung
to pale existence only. Here are rare
branches of diamond: if they shatter where
we break them off, again they will be hung,
and if we never can our prizes win,
here we may woo as long as they are fair,
sleep in the sunlight, wait, and, dancing, spin.

Virelai to a Dead Child

Tousled hair and trusting eyes,
tender lips that chastise lies,
scrambling limbs, a hand that pries
into window with no key;

bright and winsome while he dies,
the endless whys,
never asking to be free;

terrified and shameful cries
below the skies,
dripping from a soot-stained tree;

watching while his body dries,
kissing corpses as goodbyes,
waiting for his blood to rise
and for him to run to me;

tousled hair and trusting eyes,
tender lips that chastise lies,
scrambling limbs, a hand that pries
into windows with no key.

After The Age of Innocence

Rondeau

Lying beside my lover,
counting the blows--
Ellen Olenska's married.

Love is a lie. I hover
over the prose,

lying beside my lover,
counting the blows.

Suddenly, I discover
ev'ryone knows
secrets I thought were buried,

lying beside my lover,
counting the blows.
Ellen Olenska's married.


Virelai

Steel disuse; my heart is dead
white and cold the child I wed
and the children of our bed
know--and laugh!--how much I gave.

Wedding dresses stained and spread
and tore each thread
ethics, law--and I, a slave.

Knowing I might live as bred
and stop my head
thinking, thinking, am I brave?

To a room of books I fled
where my soul and strength were fed--
such a cage and such a shed
such a church and such a grave.

Steel disuse; my heart is dead
white and cold the child I wed
and the children of our bed
know--and laugh!--how much I gave.


Ballade

I learned today: the golden veil is torn.
Is ev'ry love a tragedy of thought?
Is ev'ry life an act? The mask is worn.
All things that please have yielded up to rot.
Passion and beauty; poetry has brought
my swollen belly, teeming with unborn,
ripened with longing, down the skull-paved path.
Lumbering clumsily, I would have fought,
native of barren city, empty wrath.

And when long dreams have seen a subtle sign
telling them to emerge from moistened night,
I feel them twist and shimmer down my spine;
I am too wise to bring them into light.
These twilight echoes casually invite;
I will not answer from my handmade shrine.
I won't go up to spoil remembered worth.
How could I labor so? How could I fight,
knowing my child is Pain, to give it birth?

Virelai

But you know this—don’t you see?
If today it cannot be,
soon it will, wholeheartedly,
fly to meet us there again.

As no matter where I flee,
what I foresee,
what resistance I begin,

this despair, undoubtedly,
when I am free
will attack me soft, within—

in such manner, doggedly,
hope will come again to me.
Though I stumble in debris,
it will surely bloom therein.

But you know this—don’t you see?
If today it cannot be,
soon it will, wholeheartedly,
fly to meet us there again.

Formes Fixes

Ballade.

I sing in praise of unrequited love.
It brings about all good things love can build
without the shame of censure from above.
Glory to my beloved's name is willed,
and any faults are recognized and killed,
every glance descending like a dove,
every touch, each word a thrilling thorn.
Sinless, the pain with which the soul is filled
is not too overwhelming to be borne.

Rondeau.

I sing of love unrequited:
glory in pain,
a hapless and vain endeavor,

a wound that must not be righted.
Torment is gain.

I sing of love unrequited:
glory in pain,

and still I am hurt when slighted,
knowing his reign
of iron will last forever.

I sing of love unrequited:
glory in pain,
a hapless and vain endeavor.

Virelai.

Unrequited love I sing.
To its sorrows, I will cling,
revel in its sudden sting,
struggle on its sharpened hook.

I will gasp and let it fling
each gift I bring.
I will read it like a book,

fly along, as if on wing,
upon its swing,
falling on the earth it shook.

All the world's a spinning sling,
as I pierce the fairy ring,
gazing on my noble king,
worshiping his gentle look.

Unrequited love I sing.
To its sorrows, I will cling,
revel in its sudden sting,
struggle on its sharpened hook.

Formes Fixes

Rondeau.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.
Could anyone chart their ranges?

A different kind of measure
reason applies.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.

Although it would be a pleasure,
learning their sighs,
there still would be subtle changes.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.
Could anyone chart their ranges?


Ballade.

I knew the depths of terror in a man
tormented by the heart within his chest.
It came along, no matter where he ran:
there was no place that he could find to rest.
Finally, on a mountain in the west,
he took a thousand swords, and he began
driving them in. He flung away his heart.
Floating upon the sea, it seemed a jest,
for as it left his hands, he died, apart.

I felt an envy far more biting than
any I've known: oblivion seemed best.
But I know peace; I weep now, when I can,
for his cessation, his abandoned quest.
He is no longer writhing in that test,
for he is nothing, safely in the clan
of this content and guarded from the dart,
striving no more, in Paradise, and blessed.
He has surrendered! It must always smart.

Torment within my soul has woven an
acid of terror. How could I have guessed?
Agony has these finger-claws to span
over my face. But, oh! I have confessed;
I may invite sweet torture as a guest.
Desperate, I may nullify the ban.
I am not strong, nor can I hope to start
battling this. Though I am sorely pressed,
without such pain, I cannot think of Art.


Virelai.

I've been crying in my sleep
from desire sharp and deep:
more than anything, I keep
wishing happiness for you.

I do nothing else but weep,
except to creep
on my knees and pray anew.

The things I've wanted are a heap,
enduring, steep,
of my sins, forgotten, too,

with the vain rewards I'll reap,
lost within my prayer. I'd leap
with a joy profound and cheap
if your happiness were true.

I've been crying in my sleep
from desire sharp and deep:
more than anything, I keep
wishing happiness for you.

Virelai

I feel ev'ry tiny grain
of the world, but it is plain
now that I do not feel pain,
though the wind that stings is cold,

and I think I search in vain
for what my brain
needs to flee from stupor's hold.

When I touch the fire or rain,
or pierce a vein,
I can know what lies untold,

but inside, a pool has lain,
and it steams and makes me strain,
and all other hurt is gain
next to heartache, new or old.

I feel ev'ry tiny grain
of the world, but it is plain
now that I do not feel pain,
though the wind that stings is cold.

Formes Fixes

Rondeau

I never could be so silly
as to pretend
to aim to come near such beauty.

Your smile is the sway of lily,
made to transcend.

I never could be so silly
as to pretend.

Your laugh is a dancing filly.
I comprehend
the sorrow of concrete duty.

I never could be so silly
as to pretend
to aim to come near such beauty.


Ballade

When I am dead, I know what you will say.
You will think you were wanted to forestall
all of the blood I spilt in disarray
over the table, strewn about the hall,
but you are wrong. I tell you I will fall
whether you leave or truly mean to stay.
I know it frightens. I know what I ought.
You are afraid whenever I recall
any of many whispers I forgot.

Now, while I live, they crawl across the floor,
whispering lies that tell me of the sky,
whispering truths that tell me I’m a whore,
coming in pain, and sweetly asking why.
It’s not your fault that I must choose to die.
Do not believe when whispers underscore
all of the hints a good man might have caught.
It is my choice to kill what I abhor.
It is my fate to do what you cannot.


Virelai

When I swore I would be true,
I did not mean to pursue
that old dead thing, which anew
has sprung up and grown awry.

Now my heart is all askew,
and I review
any virtue I defy.

If you saw that I withdrew
and wondered who
(or perhaps you wondered why),

do not ask me; if you do,
I will surely show to you
all the feeling I subdue
and the passion I deny.

When I swore I would be true,
I did not mean to pursue
the old dead thing, which anew
has sprung up and grown awry.