Part Two
A Fresh Family
After the wedding, what a honeymoon!
A nightmare! Like December snow in June!
She flung each gift he gave her in his face!
She did her best to make him know disgrace.
And nothing now was good enough for her.
She spent his money in a greedy whir.
She criticized and damned his every whim.
Strange eyebrows raised: the outlook appeared grim.
Then, when the two returned, his spacious house
They topsey turveyed down to every mouse.
The house, a Great House in the modest range
Went through a somewhat comprehensive change:
Grand chambers with their elegant diamond panes,
Their views of velvet lawns and emerald lanes,
Were "too too teentsy, cramped, and gave them pains"
The house, "so loathsome" gave them "bad chillblains".
They ripped the tasteful ancient trim away.
They dragged his antique furniture away.
His favorite armchair, in no need of change,
They hauled off like some mad stray dog with mange.
His household they found meager, vulgar, rude.
His every kindness they denounced as crude.
The housemaid left, and after her the cook,
The gardener quit: these hags called him a crook.
And Christabella, our pale wistful dream,
They set to work, with harsh retort and scream.
He never saw his daughter: not at all.
When he came home they'd shoo her from the hall.
His stepwife had him right under her thumb:
Her coddled poppet: blind and deaf and dumb.
They smirked: the child was spoiled, when she was ill.
They ruled both with an iron fisted will:
Convinced them of this frozen bitter "truth"
That they, the country bumpkins, were uncouth
Careening failures: they, with icy pride,
Would her uncertain flowering deride:
To all her virtues, every loving kind,
They were so utterly, bone chilling, blind.
Unending hours of verbal loud assault,
When every excellence they named a fault,
And every fault they renamed excellence:
It was enough to steal away the sense.
And our frail girl, our almost orphan child,
Well, grew gamine in weeks: street urchin wild.
They threw away her frocks and gave her rags:
Rough schmatehs stitched from old potato bags.
And then because they wished that she was dead,
They burned her warm old downy feather bed.
Now, in the attic, on the chimney stones,
She shivered nightly, chilled down through the bones.
Bedraggled, grimy, ragged, strewn with ash,
She soon grew gray down to each sad eyelash.
So now she slept in the old fireplace
With smears of soot upon her grimy face,
And tried to glean some heat from cooling bricks,
Her torn bruised arms and legs like shaking sticks,
And no one ever called her by her name:
Their nasty words became a vicious game.
"You'll never marry, you vile sewer rat!
You'll burn to ashes. Go up, just like that!
Know why I call you Cinder-britches too?
Because your father doesn't cherish you.
That means that God the Father up in heaven
Gives me the right to beat you till eleven.
If your papa adored you you'd be safe.
You're not! therefore God hates you!" And the waif
Gazed up with tear smudged face and trembling lips.
Her stepkin grabbed her: these steel battleships
All yanked her tangled tresses, till the waif
Just prayed that night would fall, cold night when she'd be safe.
And when they all thought that she put on airs
They called her Cinder-ella: grateful prayers
Arose all night in thanks that they had all
Alighted on it for it rhymed: a small
Sweet miracle of kindness: Christabella smiled,
The world had warped, and she had been exiled
From mercy, from compassion, and from truth,
And drudgery consumed her brutal youth.
She scoured the copper kettles, pots, and pans,
She polished paneling with raw chapped hands,
She scrubbed the stairs, she waxed the oaken floors,
She darned their stockings, mended lacy drawers,
She ironed linens till her arms were spent,
She weeded lawns of all save velvet bent,
Then up unending flights of crooked stairs
She wrestled furniture like slumbering bears.
Housemaid, washerwoman, servant, cook,
And gardener, knot garden to the brook.
And nothing ever merited applause!
Her chores were riddled with hilarious flaws!
Before the morn revealed one silvery pin,
And long before gray twilight streaked the East,
She stoked the coals for their continual feast.
A scullery maid, a chef: she baked fresh rolls,
And slaved for hours to enchant the lives
Of scolding, vehement ill mannered trolls
Who aimed to reign as three rich victims' wives.
On her frail shoulders they lay everything!
What ever's needed was for her to bring:
To fetch and carry: serve and grow more thin,
With bruises, scrapes, and labor-shredded skin.
That mansion had one virtue and one curse:
Those windows made perpetual labors worse:
One hundred fifty four: she scrubbed them all:
And twice a year, some, all stained glass and tall.
In truth, the wicked stepmother had thoughts.
O she had thoughts all right! She had bad thoughts!
To wit: if puny Cinder-britches died
Her daughters would inherit lands of pride:
A grand old house, vast gardens, sunlit fields,
And heirlooms rich beyond the common yields.
O think of the golden ducats they could save
When she joined her late mother in the grave!
What did you think
Comments
1 - 19 of 19
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Whoa, what an ending. Glad I finally had the time to sit down and read part 2! Certainly took me long enough...
I really like the way you have them come about the name "Cinderella." It's very interesting and you have a whole slew of clever descriptions in here. Very well done once again!
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I didn't read part 1 so it took a while for my ole brain to get the message that this was a poem about Cinderella Doh!
I wonder why so many childrens stories and nursery rhymes have cruel themes? Child abuse is never funny and yet by creating horrible characters like the ugly sisters who can and are laughed at, especially in pantomime, we make 'light' of the reality of the story if such stories can be said have reality. You do a grand job in depicting her life of drudgery.
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Thank you very dearly! It's true: what we call fairy tales were appropriately written down by the Brothers Grimm: grim they are indeed!
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now where did you get "lumbered furniture up like slumbering bears" that's a great line...!
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Thank you! I'm afraid that's personal!
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I find this even finer than your part-the-first
It is a gem of fine poetic art
I hope this awful treatment will not burst
Poor Cinderella's fine and noble heart.
I am very impressed, and you've taught me a new word in schmatehs, which I see means ragged dresses, or something similar. Great stuff. I don't know if you've read
the fairy tales of Angela Carter: if you haven't, I think you'd enjoy them. Try Googling The Bloody Chamber
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Schmattehs: Yiddish, for rags. Thank you ! I'll look for them!
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This needs publishing in an illustrated book
Wonderful stuff!!!
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Thank you! I hope i can make the rest stand up to the first!
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You my dear friend have the wonderful gift of being able to write an epic and keep it absolutly captivating for the reader. I really want to meet you in person some day, sit down over drinks and enter your fantasy world.
Love,
Amera♥
PS. I think you should put the link to part one in the Author Notes
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I can not say enough about this. You are fast becoming the standard on AP for such works as these. No one does them better.
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This shows me you'd be wise venturing it out into a philosophy of study as epics go, a worthwhile patience to write many. Very endearing story, and one I must say will be enjoed by few for its length, and missing the true glory of its main theme. A reminisce to be admired, an all too soon acquaintance with the olde feel that some do not appreciate. Loved it immensely.
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Thank you very dearly!
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You have obviously read dozens if not hundreds of long narrative poems. This is excellent. Your descriptions are sooo potent:
She scoured the copper kettles, pots, and pans,
She polished paneling with raw chapped hands,
She scrubbed the stairs, she waxed the oaken floors,
She darned their stockings, mended lacy drawers,
She ironed linens till her arms were spent,
She weeded lawns of all save velvet bent,
Then up unending flights of crooked stairs
She wrestled furniture like slumbering bears.
Poor Christabelle is brutalized like one of Dicken's child characters--ouch! Again and extremelly well done poem with a great deal of punch... very, very fine, indeed!
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Thank you dearly! I'm so glad you like that passage! I slaved over it (haha) Which is actually true: you have no idea how many drafts I went through on that passage: perhaps around thirty. I will continue to strive to merit your praise!
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Outstanding
Wow, the rich descriptive narrative is spellbinding. Awaiting Part 3.
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Thank you dearly! Max says he'll get me on it immediately as soon as Blaze is able to wrestle the pages from my hands and rip them in shreds and devour the parts not worth saving! He's a very stern editor, and I owe both of them every excellence I have ever achieved. Indeed, I must sometimes admit that I have only translated several passages from the Feline, because their corrections are so urbane and succinct!
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Wow! That was quite the interesting pen - sounds like someone you know of- does to me
too bad she could make blueberry pies or Peach turnovers?
yeah- that was most interesting indeed. thks!
How are the kitties?
Len
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I suppose if she's in France she'd always make puff paste ( which i haven't done in years!). Thank you so very dearly!!!!!!!!! It's wonderful to have my stuff read and commented on! You don't know how wonderful! I don't feel invisible anymore!!!!!
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