Dignified, you weave your decadent shroud,
embroidering each stitch with queenly calm.
You will not be touched; each new Prince or King
is told the same thing: You must let her grieve,
first. Let her finish weaving. Let her thread
spell out her sadness. Ring her hand with gold
after. You know full well they want your gold,
your breasts in either hand, your crown. The shroud,
if all goes well, will best their greed; the thread
you stitch so tight by day unpicked by calm,
determined hands each night. And so you grieve,
grieve, braiding out your sorrow for the King
your heart is slyly sure still lives, the King
ingested years ago by the warm, gold
mouth of the horizon. How long you grieve
in peace depends on your performance: shroud
your cunning, keep your head, think only calm
thoughts. Steady any trembles with your thread.
You keep a little of each scene you thread
to hush the queries you pre-empt: the King
has been gone how long? Still she sews? Bent, calm
at your work, the patterns gild your knee, gold
lattice, lace, gilt tapestry - all shroud
the anxious tapping of your feet. You'd grieve
for years, but fear you lack the nerve to grieve
forever. They drink your husband's wine, thread
his gems at their throats, claim the beds and shroud
their shoulders in his furs. When I am King -
you hear their boasts and dream of murder. Gold
blade through the breast. death in short order. Calm
in the palace...No. Breathe. Will yourself calm.
Your husband will return, and they will grieve
each slur, each smutty look, each joke. The gold
band of your wedding ring gleams as you thread.
Turned to pig by witch, ash by death...no King
of yours would go so readily. His shroud
unfolds in your calm, capable hands. Thread
picked. Stitched. Picked. Stitched. I will not grieve. My King
is not dead. Gold eyes fixed fast on the shroud.
Author notes
I haven't been on here properly in ages. But I'm back now.
NB: Penelope is the wife of Odysseus, King of Ithaca, in Homer's 'Odyssey' and Greek legend. Waiting for her husband to return from his long journey, she was plagued by suitors who, certain that Odysseus was dead, lounged around his palace eating his food, drinking his wine and attempting to court his wife. Penelope invented several delaying tactics, the most famous of which is the shroud she said she must knit for her husband's dead father - only once it was finished would she agree to remarry. What the suitors didn't know was that Penelope would laboriously unpick most of the day's stitching each night so that it would never be completed and she would never be forced to betray the husband she was (correctly) convinced was still alive.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
-
wow this is well written good job!!
-
beautiful story. powerful wonderful poem. great images. my favorite part was:
in the palace...No. Breathe. Will yourself calm.
Your husband will return, and they will grieve
each slur, each smutty look, each joke. The gold
band of your wedding ring gleams as you thread.
A simply wowing group of lines. Great job poet, and best of luck in your writing future.
-
narrative
I enjoyed this formal little narrative. It's a good story.
Thanks for sharing,
Myron. -
Wonderfull imagery
This is a beautiful and ancient story, brilliantly turned into a wonderful poem, well done
-
"your heart is slyly sure still lives, the King
ingested years ago by the warm, gold
mouth of the horizon. "
That is wonderfully put.
I think the subject is perfect for a Sestina. I'm surprised I haven't seen more on the subject. They seem made to go together. ...Or perhaps it is your art?
I must confess, I liked it better when I didn't realize what it was about, reading it the first time. But that's just me. I like my stuff cryptic. The story is a good one and wonderfully reworked, but it seems that it needn't apply to just Penelope's specific plight. Maybe broaden the title so it doesn't seem limited to this one story. Many are the stories (and the unspoken, unknown trials) of women in similar situation. In her own way, Sheherazad (sp?) wove and picked a tapestry of her own. By all means, cite your inspiration, but don't constrain the poem by titling it from your muse. It speaks for itself beautifully. -
Wonderful. The images are so clear and compelling. In the 4th stanza, I tripped over "you'd" - I maybe just "you" Or "you will". Just a thought.
A perfect example of a difficult form.
Buff
Adding your comment:
1 - 6 of 6
