Poetry Train Monday - 90 - Take One More With Him

Welcome to the Poetry Train.

For today's Poetry Train, I'm continuing my found poetry series, and returning to the character I introduced last week. We find Jock MacKeigan fighting in the Battle of Culloden, near Inverness in Scotland, April, 1746:








Take One More With Him


The horse and rider
Bore down on Jock like phantoms
THROUGH CHOKE OF POWDER
Bore down on Jock like phantoms
The horse and rider

Sword over head, swung
Down in a murderous arc
HIS BLADE SLICED SWIFTLY
Down in a murderous arc
Sword over head, swung

His blade sliced the arm
The dragoon's arm so swiftly
HAND STILL CLUTCHED SABRE
The dragoon's arm so swiftly
His blade sliced the arm

Clutching the sabre
The arm fell on battlefield
JOCK PANTED FOR AIR
The arm fell on battlefield
Clutching the sabre

Blinking back the sweat
How long, in the thick of it?
BLUE SMOKE ARTILLERY
How long, in the thick of it?
Blinking back the sweat

He felt the killing
Frenzy begin to lift off
FOCUS GOT HIM THROUGH
Frenzy begin to lift off
He felt the killing

Blocked out everything
All but weapons aimed at him
GOT HIM THROUGH IT ALL
All but weapons aimed at him
Blocked out everything

He heard it now - groans
Shouts. Rasp of steel. Musket fire.
NOW THE PAIN SET IN
Shouts. Rasp of steel. Musket fire.
He heard it now - groans

Always - frenzy's lift
Meant the danger was past. But -
NOT THIS EXHAUSTED
Meant the danger was past. But -
Always - frenzy's lift

Movement caught his eye
He turned. But it was too late.
BOUNCING FOUR-POUND SHOT
He turned. But it was too late.
Movement caught his eye

Hit a clump of grass
And veered up into the air
STRIKING JOCK'S ANKLE
And veered up into the air
Hit a clump of grass

He lay and writhed there
Screams all knotted up inside
SCREAMS FOUGHT PAST HIS LIPS
Screams all knotted up inside
He lay and writhed there

The sky above him
Was hazy with cloud and smoke
CHORUS OF WOUNDED
Was hazy with cloud and smoke
The sky above him

Heard tramping of feet
Cries of men rose up in pitch
ENGLISH STABBED SURVIVORS
Cries of men rose up in pitch
Heard tramping of feet

Bayonets would take
What foot and horse left behind
SCREAMS WERE GETTING CLOSE
What foot and horse left behind
Bayonets would take

It was clear to Jock
Before he took leave of life
TAKE ONE MORE WITH HIM
Before he took leave of life
It was clear to Jock

His fingers wrapped round
Handle of the dirk. No fear.
SOLDIER ENTERED SIGHTS
Handle of the dirk. No fear.
His fingers wrapped round

Sat up. Grabbed handful
Scarlet coat. Held fast. Thrust hard.
HIS CRY NO DIFFERENT
Scarlet coat. Held fast. Thrust hard.
Sat up. Grabbed handful

Jock's head rocked forward
Hit from behind. Took more blows.
NO STRENGTH LEFT. LAY STILL.
Hit from behind. Took more blows.
Jock's head rocked forward

This was it. Eyes shut
Prayed. Lord, I commend to you -
"GO TO BLOODY HELL!"
Prayed. Lord, I commend to you -
This was it. Eyes shut

- Julia Smith - 2009


I did The Naisaiku Challenge for this poem. Check it out!

Poetry Train Monday - 89 - Turned in the Road

This is my latest found poem, taken once again from one of my works in progress. This story follows Jock MacKeigan, who survives the Battle of Culloden in Scotland, 1746. He comes across the family of the MacBean chieftain, whom he saw fall to several English dragoons. He is taken in and tended, discovering the daughter who nurses him so protectively is the fiancee of his commanding officer.

I decided to go for a bit more form this time. I've used the villanelle, but didn't hold to the rhyme scheme. I wanted to stick to the found poem category.












Turned in the Road


He felt a shudder erupt at images sprung to mind
The soldiers - the soldiers, if they fell upon them
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

Lieutenant-Colonel Montford, engaged to Miss MacBean
Her intended was a good man, as officers went
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire

Not one to tolerate any loafing. No sloppiness. Unreadiness.
Jock and the others pressed on through the night march to Nairn
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

Montford’s regiment a fit one, not like some, plagued with desertions
Incredible folly, tiring them to the breaking point before battle
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire

Surprise the English camp - their march halted so often
The grey light of daybreak came before they reached Nairn
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

A weary messenger appeared and Montford bent low in the saddle
So very long before he turned the Scots Royal in the road
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

- Julia Smith - 2009

You can read excerpts from this story here and here and here.

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Poetry Train Monday - 87 - For Helen He Would Do It

Continuing my series of found poetry, I've taken this latest scene, just tappety-tapped on my keyboard over the weekend, from my gardener work-in-progress and molded it into a poem. I've posted prose excerpts from this story previously. You can find them in my Fiction Excerpt Archives.

My poem last week centered around the other main character from the gardener story. The story begins in 1840's England and moves across the sea to Van Diemen's Land, which is now known as Tasmania, just south of Australia.

I've modelled Robbie, my gardener character on Scottish actor Ewan McGregor. I've modelled Hezekiah Bent, the former convict who takes Robbie to serve out his sentence on his farm, on English actor Ray Winstone.














For Helen He Would Do It


Robbie trembled
Two years a convict
Somehow he’d managed to escape this. He pulled

His shirt free
Shrugged it over his head. Mr. Bent grabbed
It, tossed it on the workbench. “Your hands,” Bent said.
Robbie held them out

Watching Bent tie the rope
His master pulled him forward, tossing
The other end over the beam. A firm yank
Stretched Robbie onto his toes, the rope biting
His wrists. He gasped













A sickening chill spread through him
Bent’s footsteps crossed the floorboards. Robbie knew
Every item in this work shed. Bent walked toward
The bundle of poles and sticks Robbie used
To support vegetables and flowers.
His gaze roamed over the farm yard

To the paddock beside it
Out to the wood and the hills beyond.
The image of his father, his mother loomed
As they’d done when he’d landed on the stone floor
Of the first gaol cell. What would his father think?
His son sporting scars across his back. And his mother
She’d be unable to look him in the eye

Feeling slightly horrified from this moment on.
If he ever did see her again.
Robbie bowed his head, shame finally
Crawling over his skin. “You’re right about me
Sir.”
“Am I?”

Robbie heard
Bent’s shirt slip off, heard it land
On the workbench with all the rest
“I was raised to regard
Myself as one thing.

But I’ve turned out to be
Quite another.”
His master walked around him
Slowly

He passed into view
Cane in hand. Robbie saw
For the first time

Criss-crossed grid of scars
That formed Bent’s back. He’d always
Wondered why Bent never took his shirt off when they
Worked in the hot sun

Together.
Robbie swallowed hard
Bent turned. Hard muscles told the story
Of agonizing days. He looked like he could break Robbie
In two. Robbie trembled as he

Hung there.
“I wouldn’t have taken you
For someone in need
Of a hard lesson, Flynn.”
Robbie thought about
Morrison’s Indian army walking stick

Clipping him in the chin
Brigadier-General Chase’s cruel slaps
Until he hung in Morrison’s grip. The kicks
Of the gaolers, the ropes’ end
Of the warders aboard the hulks, the shoves
From the sailors, the weight
Of the shackles on the road crew. And

Never a blow from his dear father. Not
Once.
Tears stung his eyes
His throat closed tight
Robbie clenched his fists above
The rope holding him in place











For the lesson
His master meant to teach him
“Why don’t you respect me?”
Bent asked. Thinly-veiled
Pain haunted his gaze. Robbie

Looked away. “It’s for
The master to make me
Respect him.
Sir.” Bent walked up close

“Did you
Respect your
Master back home?”

Robbie met his
Gaze. “I did,
Sir.”
“Did he make you

Respect him?” Robbie lowered his
Gaze. “Yes,
Sir.”
Bent took a deep breath. He
Walked behind Robbie. He touched the

Tip of the rod to
Robbie’s back
Robbie resisted flinching
“Your back
Is not marked.”
“No,

Sir.” Bent
Pulled the rod away
“Then how
Did he make you
Respect him?”
“He was British Army,
Sir,” Robbie said.

“Brigadier-General
In India. Everyone respected
Him.”
“A poor master I
Must make, after
Him.”

“Why,
Sir? He gave me
The only thrashing I ever
Had. So it must be me,
Sir.”

Bent said nothing, only
Took another deep breath
Took a step back. Robbie’s heart
Twisted, a surge of

Fear took flight
Inside him like a
Flock of startled birds. He must not

Disgrace himself.
He realized with sudden
Clarity
This moment would be his last.

Robert Flynn of Cheltenham
About to join the ranks
Of men he’d dreaded
Joining from the
Night he was led from Ashbury Downs

In irons.
Elkannah Bent would
Baptise him into the
Robbie Flynn of Van Diemen’s Land.
As he’d done so many
Times before

In the shivering dark of the gaol, standing
Faint in the dock before the Quarter Sessions, in the
Stench of the hulks, battered by
The sea on the crossing, disoriented by
Heat on the road crews
Robbie asked himself the same
Question once more.

If he’d known
Then
What was to
Come, when he’d
Waited for Helen in the
Conservatory – if he’d known all of it

Would he have left Helen to be
Used so
Cruelly by
Zachary Chase?
Or would he

Still plant his fist in that
Wanker’s face?
Nothing had happened to Robbie until
This moment

That ever made him change
His answer. This
Flogging would be no

Different.
For Helen he would do it

All over again

- Julia Smith - 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 86 - The Undiscovered Scream

This is another found poem, taken from one of my works in progress. It's a scene from my gardener story, which you can check out in my Fiction Excerpt Archives. You'll find it in the 2007 entries.

I tightened the language of the scene for the poem. Otherwise it reads as it does in the story.


The Undiscovered Scream


Helen stood before the gaol
Barred wagon trundled
Towards her

Three more prisoners
Waiting to
Board

How she had longed
To be taken
Last summer

The days since then had
Crawled on famished hands
Exhausted knees

Horses' hooves clapped
On cobblestones
It seemed she

Stepped outside herself
Watching as she moved
Through the hours

Fatigue helped
To blur the moments.
The women beside her

Held hands
The man jumped down
Opened the latch

Impossible
But Helen felt.
Tendril of fear creeping

How certain she'd been
No more feelings
Left at all

She looked down
Worn fabric
Draft curled around

Her ankles. One woman cried.
The other kept patting her.
Near the harbour

Sea birds cried
Reality entered the
Box like a fourth

Passenger.
Waterfront hurly burly
Men called orders

Cargo nets hoisted.
Jagged masts
Sky clutter

Draped with shrouds
Monstrous webs
Of rope

Helen shivered on the
Wharf, the rough men
On deck stared back

The numbness was gone.
An undiscovered scream
That no one seemed to hear

- Julia Smith, 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 83 - When He First Appeared at The Bottom of the Stairs

For today's Poetry Train I'm doing the first in what will be a series of found poems. This one is from a diary entry I made on Jan. 12th, 1980 when I was 15.

When He First Appeared at The Bottom of the Stairs


Michelle and I
Watched
Star Trek - it was Charlie X

That's so
Funny too
Because
Every Friday night
Michelle and I
Guess
What episode Star Trek will be
And Michelle had guessed
Charlie X

Mom, Dad
Michelle
Connie and I
Went
To the Rebecca Cohn
This evening
To see
Gone With the Wind

So many people came

At intermission, the
Line-up in the washroom was
A mile long

The movie was astounding

It overwhelmed me

Vivien Leigh
Was
So good
As Scarlett

What an actress

Clark Gable, of course
Was
Terrific

When he first appeared
At
The bottom of the staircase

At Tara
During the barbeque

The whole audience
Sighed
And burst
Into applause

Copyright - Jan. 11, 2009 - Julia Smith

Original diary entry - Jan. 12, 1980

Poetry Train Monday - 64 - The Meaning

The Meaning


The words that make me think of you are these
Soldier – for you had my back and I, yours
Department – with Cedric’s West Indian ease
For retail was our battleground, our shore

Kids – our tiny clientele… and parents
Lollipop – abandoned doll from glorious Oz
Thumbs in suspenders, kick, ‘We represent’
Leaving us bent and gasping with guffaws

‘Yarp’ – the Hot Fuzz joke is our souls bared
A laugh – it’s not a word. A laugh’s a sound
But laughter weaves through every hour we’ve shared
And every hour we’ve shared is treasure found

The words we say, the meaning of a phrase
Like ‘love’ that we write on a birthday card
The words for you embody all our days
The yarpy days and those that felt so hard

You’ve walked 500 miles for me and more
You’ve comforted and healed. You lift me up
I’ve hugged you tight when you shook to the core
Because we laughed soon after at the ‘Yarp.’

Copyright - 2008 - Julia Smith

In the photo: me, my friend Lisa and my husband Brad

Poetry Train Monday - 62 - I Can’t Be Your Captive If I Give Myself To You

Here is a second backstory poem about my latest character, Scorpius. I've been writing about him all weekend, so I did up a poem that delves deeper into his psyche. Scorpius is Chamberlain of the Keep for Lady Elysande, in a fantasy world that combines medieval society with technology. You can read the previous backstory poem and catch up on excerpt 1 and excerpt 2. I've modelled Scorpius after English actor Richard Armitage.























I Can’t Be Your Captive If I Give Myself To You




My tunic covers scars upon both wrists
Their silent witness to the blows I bore
I pulled and writhed but he would not desist
Until I would have crumpled to the floor














The manacles prevented my escape
They also meant I somehow kept my feet
The manacles preserved my pride from japes
Which never pulled the screams as when he beat



















My tunic covers scars that she’s now seen
My lady with her cuffs chained to her bed
Her fingers lock me into place, between
Two posts, my clothing gone – those words I said

I hand myself to her, to be her slave
Surrender is my only hope...or grave...

Copyright - Julia Smith – Aug. 17, 2008