A midnight sestina: Lady of Ashes
So there I was, lying in bed, snuggled up to the pillow, and pairs of words kept coming into my head. I realized if I told it to go away I'd be mad at myself in the morning, so I got paper, and damn if it didn't turn into a sestina. No, I don't know what it's from or about or whatnot; I only wrote it, after all. Maybe it'll make more sense in the morning.
It kind of sounds like backstory or fanfic about someone's high-fantasy feudal world ... only it's nobody's I've read. Sigh. I can't *write* novels, it can't *make* me!
Lady of Ashes
I cannot rise and go before that dreadful child,
No longer proudest lady of high Anthracite,
To be adjudged by eyes as cold as diamond
And made into a limp and pliant corpse.
I'd rather far to find the fabled willow
Where Judit lay, and burn myself to soot.
What will become, now, of the House of Anthracite,
With his hands on the rein? This Heir to Diamond
Knows not the twisting ways to soothe a corpse,
And bind up raving minds with leaves of willow.
Were I not me, I'd daub my brows with soot,
To see the Circlet taken by that child.
But I am me, and so I must show Diamond
The proper way to treat a royal corpse.
No one will ever bring me elm or willow.
My holy robes lie lost among the soot
Of that proud hall. Perhaps, someday, a playing child
Will find and marvel at the dross of Anthracite.
Yet, someday, this Heir too will be a corpse,
For people do not sway and give like willow.
Who will for him besmirch their brows with soot,
He who never was a natural child?
They will regret the death of Anthracite
When they perceive what counterfeit is Diamond.
I soak my cloth again, its fringes green as willow,
And slowly wash away the ebon soot
That mars the honeyed tresses of my child:
The broken, murdered heiress of lost Anthracite.
When she refused to sell herself for diamond
He struck her down ... and now she's one more corpse.
As scented water mingles with foul soot,
Washing away the last tears of my child,
I know the bloody, tumbled ruins of Anthracite
Will never bring a whit of joy to Diamond.
Dress it up in samite; still it is a corpse.
It dances not for him, nor does the willow.
So lay me down by Judit's willow, the final Lady of high Anthracite.
I shall hope to be as good a corpse as ever any Lord of Diamond.
Don't put on soot for me, but for my child.
[ Edit, the next morning: To unpack as much of the symbolism as I know, it's three pairs of beginnings and ends (anthracite/diamond, willow/soot, child/corpse). Anthracite is a kind of coal. No, I don't know why two noble houses would be named Anthracite and Diamond, though I think Anthracite is a sorcerous/magical/healer house and Diamond more conquery. I don't know who Judit was, or what she did with that willow (get your mind out of the gutter!), or what elm has to do with funerary rites. This poem actually came to me almost line by line; I didn't know in the third stanza that the 'royal corpse' was anyone but the viewpoint character. ]
As ever, comments, creampies, criticism, nitpicks, worship, and shiny treats welcomed.
Now I just have to get to SLEEP.
It kind of sounds like backstory or fanfic about someone's high-fantasy feudal world ... only it's nobody's I've read. Sigh. I can't *write* novels, it can't *make* me!
Lady of Ashes
I cannot rise and go before that dreadful child,
No longer proudest lady of high Anthracite,
To be adjudged by eyes as cold as diamond
And made into a limp and pliant corpse.
I'd rather far to find the fabled willow
Where Judit lay, and burn myself to soot.
What will become, now, of the House of Anthracite,
With his hands on the rein? This Heir to Diamond
Knows not the twisting ways to soothe a corpse,
And bind up raving minds with leaves of willow.
Were I not me, I'd daub my brows with soot,
To see the Circlet taken by that child.
But I am me, and so I must show Diamond
The proper way to treat a royal corpse.
No one will ever bring me elm or willow.
My holy robes lie lost among the soot
Of that proud hall. Perhaps, someday, a playing child
Will find and marvel at the dross of Anthracite.
Yet, someday, this Heir too will be a corpse,
For people do not sway and give like willow.
Who will for him besmirch their brows with soot,
He who never was a natural child?
They will regret the death of Anthracite
When they perceive what counterfeit is Diamond.
I soak my cloth again, its fringes green as willow,
And slowly wash away the ebon soot
That mars the honeyed tresses of my child:
The broken, murdered heiress of lost Anthracite.
When she refused to sell herself for diamond
He struck her down ... and now she's one more corpse.
As scented water mingles with foul soot,
Washing away the last tears of my child,
I know the bloody, tumbled ruins of Anthracite
Will never bring a whit of joy to Diamond.
Dress it up in samite; still it is a corpse.
It dances not for him, nor does the willow.
So lay me down by Judit's willow, the final Lady of high Anthracite.
I shall hope to be as good a corpse as ever any Lord of Diamond.
Don't put on soot for me, but for my child.
[ Edit, the next morning: To unpack as much of the symbolism as I know, it's three pairs of beginnings and ends (anthracite/diamond, willow/soot, child/corpse). Anthracite is a kind of coal. No, I don't know why two noble houses would be named Anthracite and Diamond, though I think Anthracite is a sorcerous/magical/healer house and Diamond more conquery. I don't know who Judit was, or what she did with that willow (get your mind out of the gutter!), or what elm has to do with funerary rites. This poem actually came to me almost line by line; I didn't know in the third stanza that the 'royal corpse' was anyone but the viewpoint character. ]
As ever, comments, creampies, criticism, nitpicks, worship, and shiny treats welcomed.
Now I just have to get to SLEEP.