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.