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.

The Miserabilist

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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)

Lilith and Eve Meet for Lattes

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Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, narrative poetry, poems for the solstice, sacred geometry, sestina, the two wives of Adam

A Sestina

In a café in Yemen, two lightly veiled women,
over foamy lattes and pistachio crescents, meet
to exchange little gifts with laughter and to dish
on the man they both know well. Every eve
of winter solstice, they come together, Lilith, first
wife and Evie, the second, illustrious mates

of the guy we call Adam, the force who mates
and regenerates without really thinking. The women
sigh. Our Adam is a lusty one, the first—
you’ve got to give him that. But how to meet
a higher love, muddled hearts are asking, Eve.
Have we perhaps overdone the dish?

Frozen to the point of tasteless is the dish
of revenge, her friend agrees. Of all that mates,
vengeance breeds the saddest spawn. Yet this eve,
we have a chance, sweet Lil, as founding women
to imagine something better. It’s foolish to meet
the same agony over and over again. But, first…

They draw their heads together, Lilith first
who says, it would only take the two of us. A dish
of Primum Mobile is simple. Tomorrow, we’ll meet
in the Garden, pick saffron and capers, mates
of great flavour. The day has arrived for women
to reclaim their artful selves and men to love the Eve

of their own disenchantment. The lovely Eve
smiles. Forbidden fruit, as I know well, at first
tastes sweet, then rots. It is the Knowing women
could have held but served instead upon a dish
to please their self-created, exiled mates.
I’ve here the list of all who now yearn to meet—

and I, says Lilith, those who, clothed in joy, meet
every day as Eden, freshening paradise, Eve,
as once we greeted Adam. You and I, perfect mates
of genesis, we perpetuate the ever-present first
with uplifting thoughts and feelings to warm the dish
of pure desire. Gloria, in excelsis to all men & women!

And thus, the everlasting meeting thrived of first
and second—Lilith, Eve—conspiring a magnificent dish
for mates proportionate to the highest in all women.

Happy Solstice!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

The Great Iamb

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Advent, Christmas poems, Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, villanelle

A Villanelle

I celebrate this world through poetry
its voice my guide, the soft I Am
to paths of peace, prosperity

surrounding me with fond diversity
no pressure to compete or slam
I celebrate this world through poetry

and in response, a comedy
of fumble soothes my tendency to cram
to paths of peace, prosperity

by turning toward serenity
relief flows in, dissolving every dam
I celebrate this world through poetry

two light-held reins sustain the mystery
I ride, am ridden, a beloved lamb
to paths of peace, prosperity

with every sense alert and free
my presence mirrors Love’s iamb
I celebrate this world through poetry
to paths of peace, prosperity.

~~~

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

Where the Gifts Are

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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

Behind the Red Door

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Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, origins of the Christmas carol, poetry, rondeau, rondets de carol

Behind the red door and down a great hall
if you’ve had quite enough of life in a stall
you will find around a pied revolving table
with uncountable chairs, this is no fable,
guests merry & bright who wink and enthrall

with fresh love surprising, composers of ball,
not of chain, you’ll find repast, sweet future for all
and the past you once blamed, aptly disabled
behind the red door

doubts you once harboured will slow to a crawl
while fear fades to woodgrain upon the fine walls;
this season of change reunites Cain to Abel
the holly-hung thorn tree spins like a dreidel
the light that upholds us restored, fully able
behind the red door.

~~~

As an antidote to retail Christmas music, I find myself cheered by the medieval rondeau and its infinite variations. They’re just so fun to write, imagining dancers and singers weaving in and out, circling round the rentrement, a curtailed, repeating phrase that doesn’t rhyme—in this instance, “behind the red door”.

The ever-illuminating Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry & Poetics tells us that the rondeau was preceded in the 13th century by rondets de carole, which come down to us today as the carol. Layer upon layer upon layer, celebration. Thank you, dear friends, for your inspiration and presence.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Photograph by author

Do not see me poor, Sir!

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Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, seasonal poetry, villanelle

A villanelle

Upon the city streets at night, there is a stir
of festive lights and huddled mounds of wool,
but do not see me poor, Sir!

Sirens wail, Emergency! screech past us in a blur,
hoping to resuscitate the will to live in full
upon the city streets at night. There is a stir

that crackles round designer gloves and fur
gift-wrapped, the fear of cost a deathly pull,
but do not see me poor, Sir!

In creeping steps, not unlike you, I did incur
harsh debts that threw me to this pavement dull.
Upon the city streets at night, there is a stir

of rattling cups and bells, your pity to recur.
In countless ways, I’ve been a fool,
but do not see me poor, Sir!

Circumstance alone cannot deter
a future bright imagined as a jewel
upon the city streets at night. There is a stir,
but do not see me poor, Sir!

~~~

© 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

Now That I Know

Tags

Elaine Stirling, humourous verse, medieval fixed verse, poetry for fun, rondeau redouble

Now that I know the equator is a piece of sticky tape,
I’m nailing shut the door on know-it-alls who wish me to feel
small beside the Universe, who think I ought to scrape
and bow because of all the big-whoop facts they spiel.

Catastrophists, like cuckoo birds, adapt. They steal
from nests of joy, replacing eggs with sour grapes
and asteroids en route. With them, I’ll make no deal,
now that I know the equator is a piece of sticky tape.

Then there’s the godly ones, who think I ought to gape
because they’ve memorized some book. Oh, how they reel
while I am busy thinking of the best ways to escape.
I’m nailing shut the door on know-it-alls who want me to feel

sinful or afraid, ashamed, insisting that I humbly reveal
my flaws. Pshaw, I’m fine! In faith and fashion, I drape
myself with silken happiness. You will not see me kneel
small beside the Universe. Who think I ought to scrape

instead of taking leaps of faith have not seen my cape.
They think my powers are fake because they learned to heel
and forgot to unlearn it. Anger makes such people shake
and bow because of all the big-whoop facts they spiel.

Experts, every day, release new studies that reveal—
that’s nice, it truly is, but I’m too fidgety too wait.
I educate at my own pace, trusting it’s enough to feel
my way, with plenty more to joyfully anticipate,
now that I know.

~~~

This piece is a rondeau redoublé, otherwise known as “poetry that comes to me while dusting.” (After taking the photo, I tore off the rest of the equator, and the world seems to be holding up fine.)

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

The Wedding Feast, This Ain’t No Cana

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#bringingbacktheglosa, Elaine Stirling, Langston Hughes, medieval fixed verse, narrative poetry

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—

Langston Hughes, “Let America Be America Again”

~~~

They sat me at the table of nowhere-else-to-put-‘ems
and partnered me with the only other poet, who’d shut
his yap—I’m quoting here—at the unholy age of 43
for pissing off politicos, all of whom own, if they
haven’t eBayed them, signed first editions from 1973,
when he still had the poet’s voice and spark.
The wedding theme was chicory blue. He wore
his bloom pinned to a loose embroidered
shirt like old Cubans wear in the city park.
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?

Excuse me? Since he already knew my name,
I didn’t grasp the question was for me. He carried
on. You still swallowing that rot of privilege, still
buying the schtick of downtrodden versus you?
I despise the cliché, but how’s that workin’ for ya?
When I was young, I parked rich men’s cars
to pay for the smoke that brought the muse—
until the money came. Then, hell, all the freedom
I’d protested & pushed against, I threw behind bars.
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

***
The open bar ran out of wine halfway through
the night, which cleared most of the hall. The groom
announced an open mic and looking straight at me,
requested a miracle. I turned a sweaty crimson.
My de-versed friend leaned over. Relax, every poet
comes to the messianic borderland. He tapped my heart.
It’s part of the gig. Trick is, to write your way through it
like you own the place. Now, dilettantes and debutantes,
watch ‘em, they’ll stand at the border and humbly fart.
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart.

To my horror, he took out a Sharpie, the same
blue shade of the chicory centerpiece and started
drawing on the white linen tablecloth like a kid,
like a buffoon. What are you doing? Shocked,
I spilled the last of my bordeaux. It’s okay, he said.
The bride is my niece. I paid for the stars
and the waxing moon. He kept drawing. We do love
to bitch about our families, to throw spit wads and
stones in so-called solidarity against whatever jars.
I am the Negro, bearing slavery’s scars.

Okay, so what? Am I not the slaver too?
The tyrant spewing dictates from my place
of knowing best? Tell me, how long am I obliged
to hold everybody’s cloaks of feeling bad? What if
I’m ready now to feel fine? Every day, every minute
marks the anniversary of some historic stand
that got knocked over bad, of unities turned down
in favour of shame flipped over—we call that pride.
Broaden your horizons, we all wear the brand.
I am the red man driven from the land.

The tree he’d sketched was a great spreadsheet.
Count back half a dozen plagues, and we’re all kin.
Genghis is your Asian uncle; you’ve got Cleopatra’s
depressive tendencies. Let the cousins howl, sure,
but sing what you got to—kindly, loud or soft. We’re
all indigenes, so let the voice of our common genes speak.
While I was studying the tree table, the guests who’d left
returned, each carrying jugs of the very best. The poet
got up to pour, and I felt rhyme like tears begin to leak:
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—

~~~

In the traditional glosa, a writer uses four lines of a master poet’s quatrain to weave a 4-stanza collaboration. In this instance, Langston Hughes’s poem insisted on my including two extra lines as prologue. For those of you who haven’t heard of the glosa and would like to know more, here are links to a couple of books, by me, on that very topic.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
The painting of the wedding at Cana is by Paolo Veronese, 1528-1588.