Musings of a Nascent Poet

  "Will you be my Elven queen?

  For months, I've thought of nothing

  But loving you alone

  And kissing lips I've touched but once

  And calling them my own."

  "I'm yours," she wept. "'Tis naught I want

  Than love you all your life

  And nothing that I'd rather do

  Than be King Jared's wife."

  Can we drop lower in the spectrum for movies that inspired me? Yes. Yes we can. Here's something inspired by the largely forgettable The Bride. I'm proud to say my unending streak of rapists never getting the girl was not broken, by the way. Though this is one time he isn't killed.

  The Creator

  I made her—yes, I made her,

  Made life as if I'm God,

  Took lifeless flesh I disinterred

  From corpses 'neath the sod,

  Then sewed and grafted, smoothed and formed.

  I made that perfect shell—

  Then waited, waited 'til it stormed,

  Those thunderclouds from Hell.

  I'd waited, oh so patiently,

  For her, some other's bride,

  And yet I yearned so horribly

  For her, my greatest pride.

  How could I give my treasure

  To this beast with heart of stone?

  Why give this ape such pleasure

  That I wanted for my own?

  The monster was my creature,

  Strange abortion of my skill.

  I'd formed those fiendish features

  With a foolish act of will.

  Then, why compound that folly

  With perfection, oh so rare,

  And give him, so unworthy,

  What I wanted none to share?

  The monster could not have her,

  Though I told him not a word,

  Just let him wait and wonder

  For I felt success assured.

  The storm that night was very fierce

  More frightening than before;

  With lightning was the body pierced,

  Too much, then even more.

  And still the body came alive.

  Its eyes blinked in surprise,

  Then, when the monster did arrive,

  Sheer terror filled her eyes.

  I took her then, my precious doll,

  Away. He was enraged!

  And tore apart the granite hall

  Where months he had been caged.

  His fury and the furied night

  Then set the lab afire,

  So, with my maiden, I took flight

  And fled the monster's ire.

  A fool I was, a fool to think

  He perished in the blaze,

  Or drownéd in the murky drink,

  Or choked on smoky haze.

  That thing of Hell, it could not die,

  And leave me to my peace.

  Why curse me with its living lie,

  Not bless with its decease?

  I made him! Why impose

  The bloody fiend of Hell on me?

  I tore him from cold Death's repose—

  Why can't he let me be?

  And yet, I did not know he lived

  So went on with my plans;

  With knowledge only I could give,

  She'd equal any man.

  I wanted that, equivalence

  In heart and soul and mind,

  Though beauty, touched in reverence,

  Would form the final bind.

  I taught her, firmly teaching,

  How to act and how to think,

  How to stretch her mind with reaching,

  How to travel to the brink

  Of genius with the knowledge

  Born of logic, math and science,

  Of hist'ry, harsh and savage . . .

  And I taught her self-reliance

  While she gazed in adoration

  At her mentor, teacher, me.

  Oh, I cherished that affection

  But I couldn't let her see.

  I protected. I was waiting

  Last of all to teach her love;

  When she'd earned my highest rating,

  Then I'd grasp that silken glove.

  I wanted her! I needed her!

  But held myself in rein.

  I helped her genius to mature,

  My soul in patient pain.

  At night, I'd gaze upon her bed

  With her so calm, asleep,

  And bend to touch that glossy head

  Or feel that velvet cheek,

  Perhaps to kiss those wine-red lips

  That seemed to call my name,

  Or feel those limp white hands with grips

  To drag me on to shame . . .

  But always I resisted,

  Gentle tempting, gentle call

  And waited 'til she wished it,

  When she begged me teach her all—

  When she was more than everything

  Than any man had known,

  This perfect woman I would bring

  And make her mine, my own.

  But, 'til such time, I'd wait

  And gaze in torture as she sleeps.

  I didn't know it grew too late,

  That close the monster creeps.

  At last, she neared perfection,

  But, alas, I was betrayed,

  For a roué stole affection

  Though 'twas just her form he craved.

  But I was not a fool in this

  And rushed to stop the deed,

  Then halted them before their kiss

  Had planted deeper seed.

  I saw I'd almost missed my chance

  To teach my lady love . . .

  To hold her in that magic dance . . .

  To grasp that silken glove.

  Alas, the task was not of ease

  For she was filled with ire

  At me for stopping he that teased

  That fiercesome virgin fire.

  I tried to turn it on myself,

  But she vowed only hate.

  She spurned my love, my mind, my wealth;

  She spurned my role as mate!

  How could she, my creation,

  Spurn the love as such as I?

  Imagine my frustration

  When I saw my maiden cry

  O'er someone who cared not one whit

  While I had loved so dear—

  I moved the world as I saw fit

  For her—had that a peer?

  I made her, made her all she was

  From flesh to perfect mind—

  Now surely I had right and cause

  To feel that she was mine.

  Perhaps she had to feel the love,

  The need I'd kept so long,

  To feel that precious wonder of

  Two arms, both firm and strong.

  For beauty, I was beautiful,

  My features firm, well-bred,

  And every bone spoke classical

  From legs to fine-boned head.

  I kissed her as I'd wanted to

  So many nights before.

  I knew the time to wait was through;

  I dragged her to the floor.

  She fought, at first, but as I knew,

  She'd recognize her heart,

  And, for a moment, it was true,

  I felt that passion start.

  Alas, 'twas but a moment, for,

  Just as her heart I found,

  That monstrous creature crashed the door

  And dragged her from the ground.

  My maid, who had once screamed in fear

  At this, clung to its hand.

  Her look of loathing like a spear,

  A pain I could not stand.

  He left and took my precious doll,

  Ungrateful of my care.

  Now, of her, I know not at all—

  How does my lovely fare?

  She must regret her wretched choice

  In that, the m
indless beast

  Who has no mind and barely voice,

  Who only lives to feast.

  Did I instruct that precious mind

  To live with such a thing?

  What joys did that girl hope to find

  Inside his copper ring?

  I'm certain, now, she dreams of me . . .

  Oh, God, I dream of her!

  I hope she finds sweet freedom's key

  For long, I can't endure.

  I love her so. I love her.

  I need her to be mine,

  For all is pale, unclean, impure

  And lost in dreams of wine.

  I can't really call this original since variations of this story are pretty common. But I can't cite a singular source either. It's more like the story is built on a collection of many of them.

  The Sea-maid

  A seagull glides above a wave

  Then takes another tack,

  The wave like those of liquid gold

  That curled along her back

  And misted 'round her Dresden face

  Like wisps of honey silk,

  And caressed with light a shoulder fair

  With skin as white as milk.

  Her eyes of the celestial blue,

  The blue of sky's midday,

  So beautiful—so bright with tears . . .

  They haunt him still today.

  The lips so softly coral pink

  And cheeks with seashell blush

  And teeth of Neptune's finest pearls

  That glowed so white, so lush.

  The sea was calling out to him

  And he rushed to obey,

  Not worried much about the maid

  Who cried for him that day.

  He said he'd soon return and looked

  Once more to warm his week,

  And looked at china lashed by gold—

  A tear poised on her cheek.

  The days crept by—a week—then more.

  She haunted, now, the beach

  And prayed for what, with every day,

  Seemed further out of reach.

  Then, someone came to tell the ghost

  That lived upon the shore

  The ship he rode was swallowed whole

  And he she loved, no more.

  "How could you steal my lover, Sea,

  You thief, you greedy witch?

  Why do you take my treasure

  When already you're so rich?

  Why do you steal the only thing,

  The one thing loved by me?"

  She crossed the barren beach to cast

  Herself into the sea.

  The sea left but one to return

  When dead she'd long since been,

  With seasalt crusted in his beard

  And body gaunt and thin.

  He knew the maid who shed those tears,

  Who cried to see him go,

  That she'd not cry to see him live—

  That she would never know.

  Now, he wanders out to sea

  And sees the seagull flee—

  Gold and white like she he knew

  And lost to hungry Sea.

  He doesn't see the azure waves

  Or know birds flee this place

  For, in his mind, his eyes are filled

  With her sweet weeping face.

  Her hair whips by her fragile face

  As she rises from the swell

  With cheeks warmed with the sunset's glow,

  And eyes a sapphire spell.

  The azure waves are like her eyes—

  The sea and maid are peers;

  The sea-blue eyes are filled with brine. . .

  The sea is full of tears.

  Myths

  I loved Greek mythology and, particularly when I was in high school, I wrote tons of poetry based on legends. Most were Greek mythology but there were a few other old stories I dusted off and put to rhyme. 'Cause that's how I roll. The first one, "Eurydice" (which I mispronounced as I'd never heard it spoken) was second place winner, if I recall correctly, in the Ashland Oregon Poetry Contest under my name back then, Stephanie Beck. I might have even won some money.

  Eurydice

  Many nights I strum the lyre string

  And the sound is soft and sweet.

  Many travel still to hear me

  For it makes torn souls complete.

  But, to one soul, it means nothing;

  Only tears can it impart.

  No elixir of my music

  Can repair my rendered heart.

  The years seem eons, ages,

  Since I traveled, young and free,

  When the songs my harp would whisper

  Would bring everyone to me.

  Women young and soldiers aged

  Came to hear my siren lyre,

  Came to lose themselves in music,

  Dulcet sounds of sweet desire.

  And the voice that my harp sang with,

  I could match with voice my own.

  Orpheus, the master minstrel,

  Come and hear his golden tone!

  Come and hear the sunshine singing

  In the wonder of his throat!

  Come hear Apollo's rival

  Play his nectar-scented note!

  I had played for many women.

  I had played for many men.

  They had gathered all around me

  In the courtyard or the glen,

  But a face I found familiar

  I would see each time I played,

  And it listened there, in rapture,

  To the music that I made.

  Then, one day, when I had finished,

  And the face, it turned to flee,

  But I captured its sweet wearer

  For her eyes had captured me.

  Molten blue and filled with sunlight

  Were the pair of liquid eyes

  And they filled her face with beauty,

  Eyes so young yet very wise.

  The girl the face belonged to

  Was so sweet, so wondrous fair,

  From her feet, so lithe and lightsome,

  To her iridescent hair,

  From her long and tapered fingers

  To her smoothly slender hips,

  From her long and luscious lashes

  To her cushioned crimson lips.

  I asked her if she loved me,

  And her eyes grew wondrous bright.

  "Oh, how can I but love you

  When your music brings me light?

  To love, why that is simple,

  And, for me, an easy task.

  Do I love you? Am I breathing?

  Darling, you need never ask."

  I heard that voice, so soft and gentle,

  Sweet as songs I'd often played,

  And I knew my heart was stolen,

  Taken by this gentle maid.

  "What's your name, my precious beauty?

  Will you come and be my wife?

  Can you be what I've been seeking?

  Can it be you are my life?"

  "Eurydice," she whispered

  And my heart took off in flight.

  She was mine, this dainty maiden,

  Bathing me in radiant light.

  Melody within her name called,

  Gave my voice its lyric wings.

  Breezes played across my harp-strings:

  "Eurydice," they'd sing.

  So, we married. So, we wedded,

  Bound in union, firm and tight,

  And I watched her step down gaily,

  With her walk, so soft and light,

  When, from a hidden pile of rubble,

  Noxious viper reared to strike,

  Struck with its unreasoned fury,

  Killed her with its fangéd pike!

  O! My voice cried out in anguish,

  In a note, so woeful fair.

  "Call her back!" my heart sobbed to me,

  "Lure her back from Hades' lair!"

  So I
sang a sweet entreaty,

  Begged returning to my call.

  Rocks and trees, they traveled to me—

  But she didn't move at all.

  Music sung with special fervor

  As I sang so wretchedly.

  Streams would break through banks at beck'ning;

  They would come to answer me.

  Lyre-strings played expressest anguish.

  Both, we pleaded for my wife.

  Everything that heard came to me . . .

  But we could not give her life!

  I could not endure my sorrow.

  Music could not soothe my grief.

  All I saw was her, my angel,

  Falling like an autumn leaf.

  I must get her back, I realized.

  There was nothing here for me.

  What was there to make life magic?

  Without her, what could there be?

  So I journeyed to the Darkness,

  Soothing guardians with my lyre,

  And, at last, I found dread Hades,

  Darkest land of vengeful fire.

  Sang my song and touched the Dark God

  While his Queen's eyes filled with tears.

  "Come!" I sang, "My own sweet darling,

  Come to join me! Dry my tears!"

  Hades bid me journey from them

  With my wife a step behind,

  But I had no reassurance;

  Of my love, I travelled blind.

  If I turned back for a moment,

  Back to Hades she would fly.

  Never could I journey back there;

  Never would she see the sky.

 

  Back I longed to turn my gaze

  For I could not hear her step.

  Why, at breathing, was she silent

  And, at walking, so adept?

  Always, she had been so quiet.

  Was she there? I longed to know!

  But I kept my eyes cast forward

  Searching for the daylight's glow.

  All at once, the dazzling beauty:

  In the sun I strode with glee,

  Turning back to clasp my cherished,

  Beckoning my love to me.

  But, alas, she stood in darkness;

  As I reached, she slipped away.

  Molten eyes she turned in leaving.

  "Fare thee well. . . " I heard her say.

  Back again I surged to get her—

  I could not live with this fate,

  But in vain were all my prayers

  As I hammered on the gate.

  Gods do not give second chances.

  I had squandered my full scope

  And was doomed to world of living

  Without love and without hope.

  Now, I wander without reason—

  Where I am I do not care.

  Still I play to charm the creatures,

  Empty sounds with her not there.

  Every note reminds me of her;

  Every song her face revives.

  Ah, the music brings her vision,

  But it can't make her alive.

  Listen, listen to my music!

  Healing it can still impart,

  But the solace it can give you

  Cannot touch my rendered heart.

  Every heartbeat brings me anguish;

  Pain increases with each breath.

  Music cannot cure my heartbreak.

  All surcease will come with death.

  The Siren