seanan_mcguire @ 2009-05-11T20:35:00

2009-05-12T03:36:49Z

...may I present the virelai. This is one of the most sadistic little poem forms I've ever encountered, and my passion for structured poetry means that I've encountered quite a few. Because I am a masochist, I here present three of the damn things, titled, respectively, "A Warning To Certain Princes," "Wicked Girls III," and "Wolves, Woods, and Whispers."

These are technically all virelai anciens, with patterns of four twelve-line verses, wrapping first to last and back again. That's because I am so totally not writing an example of each type of virelai. Not unless I'm getting paid.

***

A Warning To Certain Princes.

So follow me, if you would dare
Into these speckled shadows where
The rose-owl flies.
No, take no time now to prepare;
She's waiting, and she'll meet us there,
With open eyes.
It's just our bitter love affair—
Now, don't you tell me it's not fair.
I told no lies.
Trade all your wishes for one prayer.
You bought, my dear; why not beware?
Why such surprise?

You took a road I'd not advise,
Your truths all tangled with goodbyes,
So hemlock sweet.
I told you this was quite unwise—
You're one I never could advise,
Still incomplete.
You sought to win the precious prize
That's hidden in these patchwork skies,
But your defeat
Was sealed before your dream's demise,
Now come along, my love, arise,
And face her heat.

The rose-owl never needs to cheat,
For though her heart may never beat,
She has her ways,
And though you bet upon your feet,
Swear through and through that you're so fleet,
Her bitter maze
Of truth and lies is so complete
That all around you grows concrete,
And so she stays.
Hers are the eyes you should not meet.
Her feathers spread, like winding sheet,
All white, ablaze.

It never ceases to amaze,
The arrogance this dance displays,
The bright despair.
I've seen it here, for days on days,
The men who whispered words of praise,
Who claimed to care;
They tumbled down in anguished daze,
All beat and battered by her gaze,
Ah, so unfair...
The rose-owl knows the game she plays.
Look now! She spreads her wings and preys
On empty air.

***

Wicked Girls III.

Sweet Alice with her Cheshire smile
So quick to bargain and beguile
Reflects again:
"They praise my grace but not my guile,
Forget I earned my truant's trial.
I played to win,
And I was queened in proper style,
A Lady of the Checkered Tile,
A Queen within."
But she is ever versatile,
And she can bide a little while
To don her grin.

Now pretty Jane's set to begin,
She dons her cloak, she lifts her chin,
She cracks the flue.
The shuttlecock's begun to spin,
And soon the walls will be worn thin;
The winds that blew
Through London when she left her twin
Will turn and take her from her kin—
Ah, this is true.
Apprentice-child, a witch within,
Forsaking mortal grace and sin
To be made new.

Dear Wendy Darling; once she flew,
But chose to land—as many do—
And flew no more.
Now Tiger Lily, she who knew
That sometimes only lies come true
Sits by the shore
And waits for Pan to come in view,
To start this merry dance anew:
This is her chore,
While pretty Tink, whose wings imbue
The grace of flight on mortals few,
Plays Peter's whore.

When they can't take it anymore,
Those wicked girls whom we adore,
They stand and smile,
And thank us as they shut the door,
While dragging wardrobes 'cross the floor
To block the aisle,
And flee into the nevermore,
Where they are neither pawn nor whore,
And on that isle
They spread their open arms and soar,
And we may never see them more...
Ah, sweet exile.

***

Wolves, Woods, and Whispers.

Don your crimson cloak, they told me;
Run away from beast and banshee;
Beware the wood.
They gave me locks that had no key;
They gave me chains to set me free;
They knew they could
Dispose me on a whim's decree,
As wasted as a day's debris,
And so I stood
Beneath the shade of twisting tree
And wondered why this had to be...
I donned my hood.

I donned the crimson cloak and hood
And boldly walked into the wood
Where shadows rose.
I did not plead—pleas do no good—
Nor claim I never understood.
They sent. I chose.
Too many girls have died for "should."
If I should die, I'd die for "would."
Yes, I suppose
It didn't change the likelihood
That I would die...but nothing could.
The chosen knows.

The lamb picked for the slaughter knows.
They dress it in the finest clothes,
But it will bleed.
And when the wolf before me rose,
I raised my chin, looked down my nose,
Said, "As you need."
It laughed, just as the North Wind blows,
And said, "Dear child, do you suppose
I came to feed?
It's what we choose to do that shows
Just how the seed that shaped us grows.
Now come. Have speed."

And so we ran, in shade and speed,
For sometimes wolves are what we need
To set us free.
I heard the lies, and chose to heed
The cries that set the moon to bleed;
Sweet destiny
Is rarely where our parents feed,
The humble heart, the careful deed,
Humility...
Now when you hear my daughter plead
To know just where the path may lead...
Send her to me.

Rose-Owls and Pumpkin Girls

seanan_mcguire @ 2009-05-11T20:35:00