ldhenson

I said I wouldn't put poetry on this LJ, because I was determined to push myself back into prose-writing mode after almost a decade of doing nearly nothing but poetry.

But this is unfinished poetry. And I wrote it years before I started this LJ...five years before, actually. I'd almost forgotten about it; I stumbled across it yesterday while clearing my files.

I was deeply into The Man in the Iron Mask--the 1998 movie version that is--for a good part of that year. It wasn't the world's greatest movie to be sure, playing fast and loose with its literary sources and allowing its Sun King to speak with a 20th-century California accent, but it was definitely something of a guilty pleasure. Three gentlemen named Irons, Depardieu, and Byrne had quite a lot to do with that.

As far as I can tell I wrote this back in mid-1998, in the gap between the movie leaving the theaters and its release on video. As such, the poem faltered when I (after my only viewing) couldn't remember exactly how the rest of the plot went. By the time the video came out, I had quite lost the heart, and there it's sat to this day.

It was, really, more or less a writing exercise: to relate the entire plot of the movie in iambic tetrameter ABAB. I had a lot of fun doing it, right up until the point where I couldn't remember how the next bit went.

Even unfinished, it's still the longest poem I've ever written, at 145 lines. I figure I was maybe about 60% of the way through.

I doubt it'll ever see the light of day anywhere else, so here it is on my LJ. There are a few lines I'm not happy with, but I'm not touching it up any more.

Fragment 1: Introduction

She was a queen, and he not king.
She might have launched a thousand ships,
And he, enchanted, lost...forgot.
Yet he, in pressing to his lips
His lady's hand, aspired not
To gain the throne of men, but that
Of Love...which surely rules us all.

Fragment 2: In Which Most of the Plot Takes Place

But oh, the tainted Camelot,
The furtive Guinevere, the sin!
For when Love's baser arrow's shot,
The Devil is invited in.
Perhaps in a far freer time,
Such actions would not honour press;
Yet even if not quite a crime,
Is still transgressing nonetheless.
The Devil does exist: he has
A pretty face, so young, so fair;
And those who bear his blood-filled glass
Must in their turn obliquely bear
A portion of his Hell. For one,
A secret born in shame, but kept
In silence out of duty done;
The other, who at duty leapt
To satisfy its whims, has held
His silence out of shame.

Now, then:
Beyond the hunger that had welled
in France among the common men,
A greater hunger was arising:
For wasted bread will do the same
To loyalty and calm advising;
So anger boiled and found its name
In Revolution! and its face,
Though hid, bore fangs. These deadly blades
Moved furtively, and in their place
Slipped smiles, and bows, and courtly shades.
I made my way, then, in this guile
Up to the royal side, and vowed
To hunt...another, hour and mile:
I bent, and made my pledge aloud.

The war raged on; was waged too long
Between our country and the Dutch;
But casualties, in legions strong
Each day, perturbed the King not much;
The King had but one true pursuit:
He had his eye set on a maid,
And swore she would accept his suit
E'en if her lover need be laid
His full length on the battlefield.
So brave Raoul was sent to die,
And sweet Christine, bereaved, did yield
At last, though with a tearful eye.
And Athos--oh! His noble heart,
Already strained by his son's leaving,
Was shattered now by that black dart:
Paternal grief, eternal grieving.
So, wild with fury, he flew down
To where the palace guardians stood--
Our younger brothers in the Crown,
But brothers that he understood
No longer. Madness drove his hand;
He fell upon them, twenty all,
And if this stalwart, sturdy band
Had not been captain'd, then the brawl
Would have turned deadly; as it was,
Swift D'Artagnan had barely time
To wring a halt, and voice a cause,
And plead forbearance--but the crime,
In Athos' eyes, was too far gone
To be withstood; and with a curse,
He left. The King, who knew his pawn,
Would soon demand he reimburse
This shocking breach of conduct, and
Our D'Artagnan have no recourse.
I could forsee this sinking sand,
And so I called for quick discourse--
Then when the doors were shut, revealed
My secrets to my friends, and asked
Their aid. How sharply they unsealed
Their lips! (But some things stayed still masked,
Although we knew it not.) Each gave
His thinking: Porthos lent his hand,
And Athos had his reasons grave;
But D'Artagnan held firm his stand,
And spoke for honour. Athos rose,
And piled one curse upon the other;
Believing friendship at a close,
He promised death unto his brother.
No words would sway them; both were set,
Though we attempted to make peace;
I argued D'Artagnan to let
Confession be his soul's release,
But he had his own cross to bear.

So, missing one, we drew our plans,
And set them into motion; 'ere
The full moon rose, I had our man's
Position as the priest. We eased
Our way across the murky lake
To that bleak fortress, and appeased
The guards with fire, and made our break.
(Confession...was this soul's release.)
Come daylight, we were safely hid.

Then, with my own hands, piece by piece,
I chipped away the lock, and slid
The frightful iron from that face.
Oh God! The sight--He swooned, near-dead;
But Athos showed the boy some grace,
And gently left his words unsaid.
We waited--I was racked with doubt,
Although I showed it not. What if
He had been broken? He came out
--I felt I stood upon a cliff--
But told the story of my sin,
And saw the censure in their eyes.
And still insisted we could win,
By propagating further lies,
By letting lions stalk the boy:
This, Athos charged, was nothing less
Than madness, and might well destroy
Philippe--how dare I try to dress
The scheme in such mock-noble gowns!
What could I gain by even trying
To fit pure brows to tarnished crowns,
To doom new freedom to long sighing!
I stayed resolved--he has a choice!
--At least, that was my bold assertion;
But he seemed robbed of any voice,
And Athos hid not his aversion
When shy Philippe escaped the room.
To win them over would take time,
And time was running to our doom.
Poor Porthos felt quite past his prime,

Fragment 3: Epilogue

So let him, in a blinding light,
Be lost but to a greater glory,
Which flashes in the crystal night,
And at the ending of our story.

Now, noble Athos, strong in heart,
And my dear Porthos, strong in arm,
And I (called strong in written art)
--We all have lost the safeguard charm
Of being whole. But though more cold,
We still perhaps some warmth retain:
His strength lay in his spirit bold,
And we, in spirit, four remain.