A Correspondence In Verse
To the Poet in Residence
Salutations
We are in need of a poet
At court to tell of Our
Exploits.
Yours is the name that came
To Our Attention.
We expect you here
With all deliberate speed.
Imperial Majesty
With Highest Praise
You honor me greatly
By Your correspondence
Consider me Yours
In life and word.
I will come to You
As soon as I may
Be excused from here.
I shall sing Your Name
To the history books.
To the Court Poet
Welcome
It is Our Hope
That you find your
Quarters
Satisfactory as you settle in
And begin to write.
Understand that We expect
Records of the great events.
Understand also that We
Are always depicted
Positively.
If this is unclear
We are pleased to find you
Another position.
To My King and Patron
Great Honor and Praise
As always, Great One
Your words are but my
Command.
For the stars shine bright
From your gaze of steel
And the fires of winter
Issue forth when you but whisper.
When you raise your hands
Thousands fall
At your feet
And each day your people
Give you more of their
Hearts.
Your gifts to them are
Other,
And endless.
Poet
I Greet Thee
My celebration was good
The poems will be
Better.
Please refrain from mentioning
Anything
Delicate sensibilities might find
Distasteful.
Majesty
Hail
My honor, as always
It is to enclose
My poems on your
Celebration.
I hope you find them
Satisfactory,
As I followed your directions
To the letter.
My Scribbler
Greeting
You have pleased me
Little poet, with your last
Verse.
History will remember me
As a great king while you
Remain my scribe.
None who saw the ceremony
Would recognize it
In the beautiful words you
Painted.
Sire
I Greet You
Hail and honor, Great Lord
Your enemies tremble to their souls
At this mighty visage:
The fair and even brow,
Tempestuous eyes and
Father’s mouth,
Bright shining mail and
Ivory steed.
Truly none can withstand
Your iron will.
My words, as always, await your command.
Favored Scribbler
Greeting
Wet your quill, scribe
For the sword of victory
Again strikes clean in
My Illustrious Name.
Rebellion crumpled like dead leaves
Cracked and burning.
When you write of my triumph
Say this:
Enemy dead piled high to blot out the
Sun, but my light shone on
(But poetically, as is your wont).
And of my people, the few, valiant
Fallen died well.
No mention need be made of the
Screams
Or the brothers forced to kill the other.
To A Prince
Greeting
The best that I am able to offer
To stop your evil practices
Is but a fairy bridge for the wingless wild things:
The genre of nonsense lit with the glory-fires of autumn;
But still I turn my bloodstained quill, my broken muse,
To a far more valiant fight than once I fought.
From the first, I should have written without giving you cause to be satisfied
But only now as I struggle for the spirits trying to exert their power
Do I find sense can be independent.
My acidic ink burns us both but I shall not fail to continue
Though in this danger-being rapidly annihilated-
Because I have a gut feeling that something is wrong.
Blinded by ambition and avarice as you are,
That your people have survived is a miracle of grace;
And you are less forgiving of
Ignorance and superstition
And those who lack knowledge
Than even the other hobgoblins.
One who did a book as I did,
Making true the lies from your mouth through my pen,
Must make a valiant fight to atone for those words
And I have assuredly made no mistake
Trying to exert your people’s power,
For through and through
You have nothing of the king except the diadem.
Be it good or bad of me, gentle or cowardly,
I have not given you more than words
For those who have far less to spend and more to risk,
Because I know not which of us has greater right to complain:
I, that you have forced me to write,
Or those you set in stillness, serenity, and the peace of God.