It Is All Choreography, My Dear

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Canadian poet, Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, medieval fixed verse

~~a chant royal~~

They tore the monument of you and me
up by the roots last night, spindly sapling
when we met, the leaves threw no shade till we
each set off on bloodline paths of killing,
crisply uniformed, or maintained clan worth
by withholding a cherry, no vain birth
or independent thought condoned. The hell?
Even today, I itch sometimes to tell
originators of our tiresome fear—
more I sought to please you, the worse I fell.
It is all choreography, my dear.

The maple grew. We both found ways to free
ourselves with mind-expanding routes, thrilling
at the best of times. No disharmony
could stop us from bedding other willing
changers of the world. Supple limbs and mirth,
they were eternal, surely! Excess girth
and other swills of disappointment, well,
they couldn’t encroach while under the spell
of productive possibility. Year
by year, fruits of sweet experience fell.
It is all choreography, my dear.

Today, our tree impedes economy.
How is it that, when we weren’t looking,
the buds it threw like chopper blades, spilling
onto woodsy glades gave way to reality?
How is it that, while we aren’t looking,
fresher minds envision a different earth?
Do they not treasure memories of a dearth
of joy, the killing fields, the tolling bell?
How dare they wake each day with hope, a swell
of humantide delighted to be here?
Soon enough, their naïvete will gell.
It is all choreography, my dear.

On, the other hand, where I used to be
might matter less if death were not chilling
with her accelerating destiny,
time and sense to a cruel brew distilling.
What seems the now may be the afterbirth
that, once expelled, holds no intrinsic worth.
Much like the use of entrails to foretell,
the guts I had back then are pretty well
a done dead thing. Learning to boldly spear
new attitudes does not, at first, go well.
It is all choreography, my dear.

Wood chips lie beneath this bench, once a tree
where you carved our initials. It’s telling,
don’t you think, that generations on see
not what we instruct them. Rebelling
is the stuff of youth; constant going forth
rejuvenates, forgetting all the hurt,
denying quarter to a former hell
because I’ve only room for good. Do tell!
I do, and listen for the sap to clear
fearful residuals, let silence quell.
It is all choreography, my dear,

and life’s the dance hall. Keep up and dispel
past stumbles. I can lead or follow well
to further what is best of now. I hear
them playing your song at the new bandshell.
It is all choreography, my dear.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2017
The image of dancers comes from the blog of British artist Sally McKay. You can follow her extraordinary work on Twitter @McKay_Sally.

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No Guilt, No Shame

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Canadian poet, Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, medieval French fixed verse

~~a chant royal~~

Ignis

O daughter mine, beloved son, the fires
of grim politic spit and lick, intent
on luring joy toward funeral pyres.
Singed by consuming, first hand testament,
oppressed against oppressors, human greed
the mean accelerant, an arson’s feed,
your clamour rises. We must not sit by!
Past apathies have brought us here. To die
and not have tried offends the sacred flame
that burns within, but drowns the finer cry—
Set down what condescends. No guilt, no shame.

Terra

The soil you grasped with fists before the mires
of cleanliness and godliness misspent
your jubilance, remembers and desires
that you reclaim your youthful merriment.
Sex void of love, dry acts that plant a seed
of not enough, erode the lust we need
like rain and sun to reach unfettered sky.
Comparison, the asp that bites is sly,
pretends to be your ally in this game
of changing climates while your soul weeps dry.
Set down what condescends. No guilt, no shame.

Aqua

What drought is this, you talk about? One tires
of opinions hammered and never bent.
My ears have heard you plenty. What transpires
when the current flows feels more provident
of who we are and where we’ll be. A bead
of optimism’s sweet. To mourn and bleed,
a suicide where answers come to die;
I much prefer the dew and butterfly.
A portrait Earth with ocean as her frame
displays us all, prudes, libertines, and spy.
Set down what condescends. No guilt, no shame.

Aeris

Oh, mind, how split and vast you are, with gyres
of ascending hopes, prone to accident.
You twirl on grief and rage like rubber tires
hung by rope, stalled, frustration evident.
I’m made far less of latex, more of steed,
jump easily low fences choked with weed
of disapproval. I’m a kite. I’ll fly
because I can and want to. By and by,
I’ll lose this learned capacity to blame,
give reason the respect it’s due when I
set down what condescends. No guilt, no shame.

Anima

I’ve bounced you across continents, brought liars
to our home, demanding you be silent.
Fear displaced my spirit, sowing briars
where you needed from me roses. I meant
harm at times, but regret’s a curved reed,
so all of it’s blown back to me, indeed.
Know this one thing, dear child, before I die.
I loved how long and often you did try
to heal what I had broken and inflamed.
If effort’s gold, you’ve laid great fortunes by.
Set down what condescends. No guilt, no shame.

Vale

So now the apron’s cut. Your single eye
discerns. You’ve gleaned all that you need from my
history. Don’t look back. Forget my name,
but if you must record, aim true and high.
Set down what condescends. No guilt, no shame.

~~~

Chant royals—or are they chants royal?—were all the rage in 14th century northern France, while courts in southern France entertained sestinas. I’ve gone into detail on their form and rhyme elsewhere in Oceantics. What makes these 60 to 62-line poems a rare bird in my experience is the challenge of finding a final line that I can tolerate repeating six times. They are, after all, chants, not rants, with an expectation of dignity, given the audience for whom they were composed.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

The Miserabilist

Tags

Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, medieval fixed verse, narrative poetry, variation on the ballade

~~ a chant royal ~~

A motley fool of one hundred and two
who freshened the moods of seventeen kings,
confounded ten queens and ne’er a sword drew,
nor suffered the pain of everyday stings,
with a purse always full, a bed always
warm, once offered to share his foolish ways.
Just five simple words, all trials will cease,
enemies vanish, your fortunes increase.
No magic potions, no frogs to be kissed,
an action so simple, it must needs please:
Don’t inhale near the miserabilist.

The miserabilist? A word no one knew
in court or in town, it swiftly took wing
& all through the realm, a strange caution grew
as folks sniffed one another for something
amiss in the way that they spent their days
or their ducats, criticized or gave praise.
And when they approached the flagrant unease
of some poor sad sot, they tried not to breathe
till they’d set his ass or his boat adrift.
Many were crowing of new-found relief.
Don’t inhale near the miserabilist.

The motley fool’s popularity grew
while the rickety king found a new spring
in his step, for his subjects who once knew
only the keys of complaint learned to sing
new refrains. Livestock grew fat on the graze;
barren wombs came to life; a pinkish haze
settled over the land; a tinkling breeze
cooled the fears of poverty and disease.
All ventures thrived; every day brought new grist,
abolished old habits of thought like fleas.
Don’t inhale near the miserabilist.

Now our motley fool was no fool. He knew
that avoidance alone can never bring
joy of the kind that eliminates blue.
Constant surveillance against anything
must eventually flood minds and by-ways
with its very nature. Streaks of dismay
were already seeping like rancid grease
through the gossip and fray, a slick decrease
of focus on five simple words. Once blissed,
now sinister was demanding release.
Don’t inhale near the miserabilist.

Fool, undeterred, he donned his cloak and blew
the air from out his lungs. He stashed the rings
and torques of gold that fortune brought and flew
by night on horseback to an untried king
with retinue who wished to learn the ways
of wealth and surplus. Endless sunny days
accompanied our fool whose mental ease,
well practiced, holds no tics. No enemies
could pierce him, no impostors grasp his gist
of life as serial simplicities.
Don’t inhale near the miserabilist.

The motley fool has never ceased to tease
the humourless within us. Still, he pleads,
let go of consequence. Give wrath a miss.
Breathe deep into the vast where love agrees.
Don’t inhale near the miserabilist!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
Image, “The Jester”, a woodblock by Irving Amen (1918-2011)

Where the Gifts Are

Tags

Advent, Chant Royal, Christmas poems, Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, narrative poetry

A Chant Royal

When I was but a sprat of three, a book
of tales was given to me, a bearded guest
his name no one recalls, but oh, that look!
The silver beard, black shiny eyes, a vest
of velvet trimmed with gold; too showy he
to be admitted by our family
for whom restraint and modesty are gifts
beyond all others to be prized. Deep rifts
of war and secrecy have left their scar
across the love that Yuletide should uplift.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

I could as yet not read the words. That took
me years. The pictures, though, they were the best!
I listened, watched. His finger never shook
while reading of the Timeless One, behest
of you and me, and of humanity,
engaging mirthfully upon a quest
to show us while our minds are set adrift
that as we think, we see. It is a grift
of true simplicity, a guiding star
by choice to dim or brighten, caught or missed.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

Here now inside this stable, take a look.
A manger holds the Timeless One; he rests
while those surrounding him adore. The crook,
a shepherd’s rod, stands propped beside three chests
brought from the East with great solemnity
by men well versed in Space. They’d come to see
the innocence of Time and to assist
in ways sublime. His brow Balthazar kissed;
he poured sweet oil from alabaster jars.
Simplistic minds objectify our gifts.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

My friend went on to say, this precious book
was bound and stitched with only the highest
grade of gold by adoring Love to hook
great and eager sprats like you to attest
we all arrive with dazzling purity.
Timeless come to time, a reality
whose fragrance like bold frankincense insists
and occupies, an eddy that resists
the breaking free of thought, a middling star
that only by consent from you exists.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

The final of the presents three he took
some time to spell for me. Behold this crest
upon a wave so high. Who’d think your brook
of tiny thoughts could grow this sea? The test
you never had to pass is history,
embalmed in bitter myrrh. No infamy
by your attention will demur. Misfits
of grief, regret, just set them by. The twists
of ever-freshening now, by law, unbar
desires you’d forgotten. Still Heaven-blessed,
care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

That first sweet night remains a mystery
yet every year, the guest returns to me
and once again, I am a child. He lifts
me to his lap. I sigh…all worry drifts
to streams of present thought. The ocean far
crests over me in joy through time, no rifts.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

I Turn My Other Cheeks

Tags

Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, poetry

Oh, ye of so much faith, absent of doubt
expounding with your foxy hosts on how
this world is sure to end, your ilk as spout
of wisdom to inform us, holy cow!
I should have changed the channel, but your beard
like gorse and bramble made me feel a-feared,
while from your steely eyes I saw no love,
just hardness locked inside a studded glove.
To those who kill, you promise death. Shoot! So
much better things I could take notice of.
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

We all have declarations we could shout
of independence, constitutions, vows
to break or to uphold. My native grout
holds just as firm as yours, and I allow
that you, within your borders, may feel seared,
remanifesting destiny dog-eared
and out of date. Your sovereignty of shove
when pushed, to hell with lamb and peaceful dove,
makes sense to intelligence wrought hollow
by rote and memorizing ghastly stuff.
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

I listened for ten minutes to your bout:
Galatians and Ephesians with your brow
all furrowed, disapproving, God’s own scout,
avenging angel, ratings to endow
continued wealth. It’s fine that you appear
on what they call reality, my dear.
TV is marketing, a slimy grub
at times whose mainstream I can barely glug.
But with the cameras off, what is your show?
Does subtlety exist within your trove?
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

I wonder, can you speak or think without
expressing vile nationhood? Do you know
how much you sound like them, the mad devout?
Your tribal god’s the one and same, low brow
and gauche, he’s of the baddest, meanest tier.
You think there is a heaven where he’ll cheer
for all you didn’t love and feel? No, guv,
your faith I do not share. I cannot prove
my stance and nor can you, so let’s just go
our separate ways. Good luck with your next move.
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

Yes, for this royal chant I made a lout
of you, as you do for the hooded brow-
beating fanatics who don’t care about
the peaceable and fair. Yet death will show
us all one day how thickly we were smeared
with rank stupidity, how we adhered
to flimsy self-defense, a shallow groove.
You can’t force me, I won’t fix you. The love
that brought us here will take us home. We’ll know
more than we ever did, nothing to prove.
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

Now, bearded one, go peaceful with that sub
machine gun attitude. I too shall rove
from day to day imagining a show
of might through words and rhyme I might improve…
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Did Anyone Write Poems While We Were Away?

Tags

Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, form poetry, narrative poetry

I

The rebels set us free today, some stately dance
involving dams and promises to swing the vote.
They gave us time to call our families, a chance
to bathe and trim our nails before the rescue boat
arrived with senators and diplomats whose hats
sat jaunty on their heads. Hugs all around, and pats.
Good job, you have survived! Now, tell us how you feel.
They fed us well that night, a patriotic meal,
a speech from the new President who’d paved the way.
The shyest of us said to him of our ordeal:
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

II

We meet at noon on Tuesdays in High Park, Bonnechance
and me. I come from a volcanic isle, remote,
a goatherd’s daughter; she, from Port-au-Prince. First glance,
you know the squealing children in our care who float
like seahorses from slide to swing, are sometimes brats,
from our sweet wombs they did not fall. Our little sprats
wear shoes because their Mamas tend to kids well-heeled.
Aunties sing them lullabies. They know us by sealed
envelopes with cash. Tears and necessity pay
their way. One day, Mercy will answer our appeal:
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

III

The virus creeps along, alert to circumstance,
fast wed to civil wars, they clutch at groin and throat,
agreements reached beneath the veil, a small distance
from the mission camp, draped in white. A tattered note
hangs in surgery, a psalm above the reed mats.
The young doctor from Santa Cruz sold river rats
to live; she knows and listens for the subtle wheel.
Though outwardly she treats them equally, the deal
of who survives and who moves on does not dismay
her. All patients dream of home, their favourite meal.
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

IV

The officer in camouflage, he prays to chance,
and sure enough, he finds two kids beside the boat
behind the school. I ought to grab you by the pants
and drag you back. You wanna be like me? A goat
too dumb to read? The girl cowers; the boy, he pats
on the shoulder. We need smart men at the salt flats,
unafraid to fight injustice. They watch him peel
open a pack of smokes. Your Mama, how’s she feel,
you skipping school? The little girl’s too tough to sway.
The boy, scratching words in sand, is easy to steal.
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

V

The President’s daughter texts her cheating ex, stance
on her stilettos wide apart. I burned your coat
and alligator shoes, you pr***, don’t try to prance—
A skinny arm, a pistol at her pretty throat,
a trembling whisper. No quick moves. The rebel that’s
obliged to prove himself throws her into a flat
bed truck, tries not to think of Mama eating veal
off fancy plates. The effing princess liked to squeal,
then caught the virus, botched their Proof of Life display.
A strafe of bombs, the boy’s tattered journal reveals:
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

Envoi

Give up the battle to control what others feel
and say. The greatest war is that which you conceal,
the fear of disrespect distorting hearts by day,
each night dissolves to peace and whispers her appeal.
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

~~~

Some of you will recognize the rhyme scheme and repetition of a Chant Royal in this piece. By dividing the stanzas into cantos, I’ve diluted some of the “chant” experience in favour of the narrative’s underlying thread.

The meter is duodecasyllabic, twelve syllables per line.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image comes from Wikipedia.

The Closest Coin

Tags

brave new business leadership, Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, narrative poetry, The Corporate Storyteller

A Chant Royal

The mongering in misery is brisk today.
A pint of pain for three quarts of sting,
fragments of dead love affairs, whaddya say?
I’ll even throw in the nasty, helpful thing
I said to a friend a few minutes ago.
I’m quick to bring the spirits of everybody low.
There’s no greater trafficker in grief than me,
with expertise in creeping, gnawing jealousy.
You got nothing to gain, everything to lose—
may as well put your trust in me.
The closest coin is yours to choose.

Wish I knew how I’d managed to stray
into this ville of shops that can only bring
me wriggling anxiety and disarray.
This poison pit stop has me wondering:
I have a fine purse that’s just below
half full, no earthly need for me to blow
it here, where a disengaged economy
deflates and battles for supremacy.
Who was it said, I’m quick to bruise?
You cling too much to skewéd memory.
The closest coin is yours to choose.

Aah, yes, the great philosopher, Duprés!
I’ve read him too. Brilliant how he’ll wing
you out of sunny skies to sullen gray,
two seconds flat. But here, ooh! The bling
and crap, I guarantee, will make you feel so
fabulous, you’ll want to stay to grow
your business here in toiling perpetuity
by investing in how alike and sad we
are. Consciousness rising, that’s the cruise
you wanna book, right here, see?
The closest coin is yours to choose.

The monger’s got me in a power play.
I feel my will and joints slow stiffening.
The sign I couldn’t read well yesterday
above his wares and oily grinning
head says, Come on, baby, just let go!
Rigor mortis of the mind will show
you, an impulsive shopping spree
cures all. We throw in guilt for free!
How ‘bout it? Cheaper than booze,
a slow, lazy drag to the cemetery!
The closest coin is yours to choose.

I look him straight in the mug. You play
dirty. I play differently. I love ca-ching
as much as anyone, but you, you bray
the same old donkey chords of suffering.
I thought at first I saw a special glow
in you—still do, too bad. I have to go.
You’ve built yourself a match stick society
that flames to ashes every night. The fee
you charge for feeling good, your dos
and don’ts, all sorted, they don’t interest me.
The closest coin is yours to choose,

and I am spending mine most happily. Be
well, my friend. I hope you’ll one day see
resentment held is counterfeit and strews
more prolonged misery for you, not me.
The closest coin is yours to choose.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Let Go!

Tags

Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, humourous poetry, medieval fixed verse

A Chant Royal

This day is fresh, you’re born anew, so fling
toward life that lies ahead, awaiting you
with eager arms. Forget the former things
you’ve said and done; there is no cause to stew
unless it’s in a pot with parsnips and
potatoes. Ask no one to understand:
they will or won’t. So what? To wait upon
the maudlin thoughts of others who are gone
into their private mental shacks to sigh
suspends you, and you think you’re all alone.
Let go your futile need to justify.

The nihilist likes to deny; he’ll bring
you to the brink for fun, and when he’s through
he’ll find some other joy to smash. To wing
the speed of life allows you might be blue
now and again, but only so you’ll stand
a little taller, join a brighter band
of light. We’re rainbow’s children, all. The sun
adores and fries us equally. Such fun!
The lonely hearts’ club, darling, is a lie.
Its membership is minus one, plus one.
Let go your futile need to justify.

The pessimist, now there’s a gem! Her ring
of murky moods will smother and undo,
and only then can you be friends. She’ll sing
of pain so beautifully, you’ll think you knew
her deepest needs and plunge you will, a grand
and eloquent swan dive into quicksand.
Once there, you’ll think, such poetry! My wan
and feeble soul laments like Babylon…
Whoo-hoo! The tower fell quite horribly.
Our physics has improved since then, my son.
Let go your futile need to justify.

Neutrality does not exist. That sting
you feel is welcome overstayed. Be true
to those who, when you think of them, can spring
new thoughts of hope and happiness. Imbue
the rest with godhead pre-imagined. Land
on higher ground by choice, and you’ll expand
just like the Universe. It’s all been done
in quantum dance, employed by everyone.
There is no debt, no limits to the pi
we slice. The dice will never come up un-.
Let go your futile need to justify.

The optimist, you are the one with bling
who shines in dark and light. That thing
you do of seeing best, best imitates, ringing
in Creation’s frequencies. Ballyhoo
it might appear to sorry sacks, their bland
retreat and you are not a pair, aband-
on them! You’re under no one else’s gun.
Continue with the capers you’ve begun.
No need to catalogue or prove. Supply
yourself with what uplifts. The past’s undone.
Let go your futile need to justify.

Futility will always seem to some
insurance against falls like Humpty-Dumb.
So let them have their way with gravity,
zigzagging from “I hope so” back to glum.
Let go your futile need to justify.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image from http://www.photobucket.com

From the Silence: A Chant Royal

Tags

Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, French medieval verse, inner silence, Law of Attraction

Christine de Pizan presenting The Book of the City of Ladies to Queen Isabeau

In my continuing exploration (between fits of free verse madness) of old poetry forms, I offer here the Chant Royal, five 11-line stanzas and a concluding envoi that takes the medieval ballade, my previous post, even further.

This super-fun challenge was introduced to the 14th century French courts by a well-respected author and poet who was also a woman. Christine de Pizan had the courage to challenge misogyny and the stereotypes of her era, no small feat considering these were the times of the Inquisition, of witch hunts, and crusades against the Cathars and other heretics.

I’ll save the rhyme scheme details for the end of the poem and the die-hard poets. (I know some of you, and I appreciate you to the stars!) What I will say here is this. We have been led to believe that the so-called Dark Ages contributed little to humanity beyond castle ruins, the Black Plague, and the aforementioned terrors. But I believe that deep within those years of butchery were genuine Minds on Fire. Troubadours, jongleurs, poets, and jesters (the royal fools) challenged each other’s wits for three to four hundred years with tremendous feats of language and rhyme, and may thereby have set the neuronal cornerstones for the geniuses of the Renaissance who would follow them. That’s my theory anyhow, and I like the feel of it.

I hope you enjoy “From the Silence”.

~~~

I

In the days of Egypt old there lived an
aristocracy whose lives revolved round
plucking, tweezing, averting summer tan;
‘twas only slaves while heeding every sound
from Pharaoh and his concubines enjoyed
the drench of sun on hairy skin. Less buoyed
they were by foremen of the pyramids
who viewed them as dispensable, a grid
whose lines could be replaced, a human gyre
spinning revolt, while inner voices bid:
please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

II

In times of sooty England when the span
of industry drove youth into the ground,
when coolies and imported lesser man—
dirt cheap—drove spikes of railway iron down
through swampland, clay & stone, could not avoid
the shaming and starvation, they employed
a reddish antidote by which to rid
themselves of all the cruel bosses did.
In whispered ranks they counseled & inspired
how best to send the oligarchs askid.
Please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

III

Today in grayish cubicles we’re crammed,
to screens of mindless data locked and bound
as viewers and consumers, Idol fans.
Through tainted quests for liberty we’ve found
our problems well described by Jung and Freud,
but none of the solutions that we’ve toyed
with wakes us from the drowsy carotid
that pulses in our craniated lid.
Ask anyone, they’ll tell you, I am tired.
I want to say, as if to spoiled kids,
please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

IV

And then the day arrived when all my plans
to not unsnap blew up and flew around
like bits of Styrofoam. I ran my hand
through empty air, walked lonely through the town,
my iPod tuned to favourites from Pink Floyd.
I turned them off. What was this, now destroyed?
Beneath a bush, I heard a katydid
sweet-singing, clear and uninhibited.
She was not moaning, Katy should, her fire
held no judgment—the knowing came rapid:
please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

V

I write these final stanzas from the Cannes
Film Festival where movie stars and hounds
hope movies that they love will not be panned.
The story that I thought had run aground
now stars my favourite actors who’ve deployed
the subtlest of my plot lines from the void
where all that matters must begin. Madrid
is next, and after that, who knows? Amid
the fun of now exists the all, no higher.
I’ve been reminded by a stellerid,
please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

VI

It’s true, my friends, we’ve all inherited
capacities for joy unlimited;
by seeing what we want in full attire,
Creation’s law attracts the best of it.
Please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

The rhyme scheme for Chant Royal is ababccddedE with the end line repeated in each of the five 11-line stanzas and the final envoi. The envoi can be either five or seven lines, rhymed as ddedE or ccddedE. Christine added the final mind-pretzeling rule: Apart from line E, no repetition of end words!