C E Mac Millan, 10 january 2012
(still work in progress)
You taught me to feel by
Demanding a beer where
Indians aren't served.
Your saved up tears
My sole inheritance.
Black was your hair,
In fact it was red
Though I could never
Ascertain the real
In the passing scenery.
Living on interstates
Knocking on so many doors
We sang to keep you awake,
It is there my heart
Still finds a moving home.
When at last rejected
By everyone you knew, still
Managing to carve out a life.
Who might you have been if
Only you had been born lucky?
Your confidence was first,
In a string of losses,
Then me, and another,
Your mind gone, all was
Reduced to paperwork.
Your lessons were hard
And when you came to rest
Far from over, a key:
That could open soup cans
Unlock the gates of trust.
There are days not yet spent
I want to believe in them
That I will review, and
Understand that circus, then
Hopefully I'll do no worse.
C E Mac Millan, 26 december 2011
Smoke rising in the distance
Transforms into ghostly shapes
History's bastard children
Inconvenient mysteries.
Wheat-sprayed fields of gold,
Idylls of a childhood spent
In occupation's shadow.
The conqueror ever at hand.
Hard enough to be a peasant:
Without the moods of kings who
Pass without a by-your-leave
Devastation in their wake.
Why not marry a shepherd
Happiness is meat on the table
Oh no, your calling is to
Bear the torch of liberation.
What is a girl to do, when
Her times call for measures dire ?
Take up sword, shield and ride, it's
Better than churning butter.
No need for visitations,
Nor angels, saints imploring.
They can't compare to the itch
To quit a sleepy village.
O country lousy with foes
And their accents dissonant
God bids me to drive them out
With the fire of purity.
The prince wrung his hands, princely.
There's reason in her madness.
And some tale about a maid?
Anyways, it's just a girl.
How they would rob us, and then
Install some slob on our throne.
This fille could be the trick to
Touch a flame to the kindling.
Before a keep forbidding
Lunging at the foe she cries:
Advance, and the men outdo
One another to impress.
Strife's hazards and rewards, trump
The extremes of the spinning wheel.
Preordained, that she must fall
As all by gods forgotten.
Now that won't do, virgin girl.
You've shorn your locks and traded
Dolls for the business of men
And made a muss of our war.
For the king you crowned, even
Success makes of you a threat
None but witch or whore go where
Kings, lords and horsemen daren't.
Wood readied before judgment,
Auto-da-fé, ink still wet.
An unjust yet tidy end
For she who inflamed the land.
©2011 C E Mac Millan
/*
This poem was written especially on a theme basis for a certain
literary magazine where it was rejected.
I feel close to Joan of Arc - she is a patron saint of France, but
more importantly - someone too full to remain where she was
born.
*/
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