Poetry Train Monday - 93 - Her Palm Stung But It Was Worth It

A very special hello today to Gautami Tripathy, who restarted the original Poetry Train when it got sidetracked. Many, many thanks! I hope you know how much that means to me.


Here is a found poem I crafted from a prose scene in one of my WIPs. Last week's poem introduced Scorpius from my dark fantasy story. Today's poem introduces Lady Elysande, whom Scorpius serves as Chamberlain of her keep. You can read an excerpt HERE.




Her Palm Stung But It Was Worth It


He just made it through the doorway
Into the Great Hall
A silver chalice sailed past his face
Bounced noisily onto the flagstones

Scorpius halted




The Master-at-Arms ducked
One arm shielding his face
Lady Elysande stood, knocking her chair over
“Rephrase that, Pahlmot.”

“I cannot recommend the Ball be held, my lady.”

Grabbing another goblet, she dashed
Its contents across the table
Into Pahlmot’s face. Scorpius caught the goblet
Square in the chest.

“The dragon sighting is confirmed. I saw it myself.”

“My guests have already set out.
They cannot backtrack now.”
Scorpius took a step forward. “My lady
The Master-at-Arms merely reports on developments.

As you requested.”

Pahlmot shot Scorpius a look of gratitude
Pulled himself up a little taller.
“I’ll continue to send patrols. Intercept
Guests we find and bring them to safety.”

“Excellent,” Scorpius said.

Lady Elysande looked from one to the other
Her chest rose and fell rapidly
Pahlmot bowed stiffly. “If there is nothing further
My lady.” She simply stared at the Master-at-Arms

Scorpius gave him the slightest of nods

Pahlmot backed away several paces
Turned to exit the hall
A slave picked up her chair
Lady Elysande sat as Scorpius began the

Long walk around the table to join her

Her chamberlain made his unhurried way towards her
For an employee in her household
He had an insufferable arrogance about him.
She wished very deeply he was one of her slaves

He and that stuffed-shirt Master-at-Arms

Their assumptions about what this
Dionysian Ball was really all about
The man had balls. Stepping in for
Pahlmot like that. Nearing her now

As though she wouldn't haul off and slap him

Across that perfect face of his. She waited
Till he sat in the chair beside her
The sound of it rang through the empty hall
Her palm stung, but it was worth it

For the hand print she’d left him

He took a moment to recover
Pulled his chair in
Looked her straight in the eye
His own danced with icy rebuke

His dark hair fell across his brow.
“Lady Elysande,” he said, his voice like silk
“You do have guests en route and
Alternate arrangements to make. I suggest

We address that.”

She reached for another goblet
Replacing the two she’d thrown
A slave filled it for her
And she sipped the dark wine

Entertainment. That’s what he thought of it

Goodness knows he must not suspect
What the nobles were truly up to
Why stage such an outrageous festival
If it wasn’t to distract everyone? Really –

Did handsome men have to be so thick?

“What is the point of throwing
Half of a Dionysian Ball?” she asked
Petulantly, thinking to herself that
Half was better than none for their purposes

“You forget, my lady,” Scorpius said

“I promised you your debaucheries
Whether any guests showed up.”
A thrill erupted through her. Why would her
Chamberlain’s words give her

Such a reaction? “What did you

Mean by speaking for me
To the Master-at-Arms?” she asked
Trying to get her mind off the image
Of Scorpius grabbing her for a forceful kiss

Where did that come from?

Scorpius took a breath before answering.
“Forgive me, my lady. I knew the
Urgency of his situation.”
“There is no excuse

For putting words in my mouth

Before another member of this household.”
She turned to look at him
Scorpius kept his head up but
Cast his gaze down. “My apologies.”

He swallowed and braced himself

Elysande’s heart beat painfully
She looked at her dark-haired, blue-eyed
Chamberlain. A delicious plan
Formed in her mind. A plan that

Surprised her by how quickly it excited

The deepest part of her.
“This keep is my home. I have no
Husband to help me run it. I have only
An endless betrothed. He’s been fighting in

Some battle or other far more than

He’s been inside these walls.”
She stared at Scorpius, willing him to
Meet her gaze. After a long moment
He looked up. She saw the dread

Lurking behind the bravado

“We will discuss the plans for the
Ball’s replacement now. But tonight
We will discuss how you will
Make it up to me - your insufferable behavior

Before the Master-at-Arms.” Scorpius flushed

Though his face registered
Almost no change in expression.
She felt the thrill of recognition
At this discovery. Why had she not

Realized it before? He’d been here all along

Right under her nose.
“Yes, my lady,” he said, the sincere
Regret in his voice coursing through her
Like a drug. She had freed him from bondage

His gratitude made him ripe

For the kind of relationship
She liked best. A besotted chamberlain
Was precisely the ace she needed now
When dragons of all things threatened to

Pull apart a secret

Noble alliance built
Painstakingly
Behind the scenes while
Fathers and husbands-to-be

Played at war

- Julia Smith, 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 92 - He Followed His Master

So far, I've introduced four characters from two of my works in progress by creating found poetry from reworked prose scenes. Continuing with this format, here is the main character from a fantasy story I started last summer at my writers' retreat.

You can read a prose excerpt about Scorpius HERE.



He Followed His Master



Fostering relatives' children was common practice among the nobility
The nurses treated Scorpius as they did the others
Some had beautiful mothers scooping up their darlings
Sometimes handsome fathers took their children out for the day


No one ever came for Scorpius

He never asked where his parents might be, didn't want to
Hear the words spoken, words to confirm the gut-gnawing truth
He learned to be a little lord - until the other boys
Transfered to their own Houses. Formal schooling began

No one sent for Scorpius

At last, as babies arrived, a whole new crop of children to the nursery
Scorpius watched a stately man, a man with a scar across one temple
Approach the head nurse. Scorpius saw him glance over. The man with
The scar strode slowly across the courtyard, his movements

Like a great predatory beast

Finally. It was happening. Someone really had come for him
Crouching down so his face was level with Scorpius'
The man looked deeply into his face. Scorpius stayed silent
Returned the gaze without flinching. Hard, piercing glance

Raked across Scorpius' soul

Bowing as he'd been taught. Returned his gaze as was proper
Between family members of the noble classes. The man's expression
Changed, darkened with disapproval. Scorpius dropped his gaze
Fear prickled his back. "I'm the falconer," the man said

"I have need of a boy."

"He's a very helpful young man," the head nurse said, proudly
"Very respectful." Scorpius noticed she stressed the qualities
Of a good servant. His heart seemed to weigh a hundred pounds
"I'll take him off your hands, then." The man rose to his feet

Turned expectantly toward Scorpius

"Come along," the man said, striding off the way he'd come
Scorpius looked up at the head nurse in a panic
Was she releasing him to serve that scarred man? One look
In her eyes and he saw that she was

A sob lodged itself in his throat

He would not give her the satisfaction. All his
Dreams of meeting his parents one day shattered in a
Blinding instant. Forcing his feet to move, Scorpius refused to
Let the nursemaids see how their silence at his fate

Pierced him to the quick

He followed the man who was to be his master
With a swirling mix of emotions. For the first time
In his young life, he would belong to someone
A part of him rejoiced. The other part


Remembered the scar
















- Julia Smith, 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 91 - A Place to Start

This may be an entire year of found poetry for me - I'm having so much fun doing it. I've found quite a few poems in my prose fiction, and here is another one from my WIP about the aftermath of the Battle of Culloden, which took place in Scotland in April, 1746.

Last week I turned a scene from my story into a bit of an epic Naisaiku Challenge. This week I'm introducing Emma, the daughter of a clan chief who will cross paths with Jock, the narrator of last week's poem, a little later in my WIP. You can read some prose excerpts HERE.





















A Place to Start


“Soldiers! Run! Go to the hills!”
Emma looked up from her stitching
Thomas ran toward the house from Nairn road
Mother quickly made the sign of the cross

Emma raced down the back stairs
“We must fly from here, now!”
“But the pies, Miss-”
A dozen of them moved into the trees

Then she heard it - a low rumble
A shout. Emma tried
But she glanced over her shoulder
Red-coated soldiers swarmed

Hens and pigs turned out
Horses tried to avoid the hands
Cattle dogs barked angrily
Washstand hurled from third-floor window

“Saints preserve us,” Enid said.
“Keep moving!” Thomas called.
Emma turned from the ruin of her home
The English had won the day

Her father, clan chief of MacBean
Did he lay broken on the field?
Her brothers...fiance...
Emma refused to hear the crackle of flames behind her

What of the oil portrait
Charred and blackened now?
Her brother Murray stared with eyes
Haunted by second guesses

“Come, Murray,” she coaxed.
She turned to look with him
Black smoke rose lazily from barn roof
Animals wandered past silver and crystal glinting in the grass

The rest lay twisted in death
“Murray MacBean,” she said. “You mustn’t
Stand here while your women are going alone
Into the hills.”

Murray looked at her, swallowing hard.
So dejected he’d been, left behind at fifteen.
Look after the manor house, while the other men
Fought for the Stuarts

“You may be the only MacBean left
To us. Be sure that your women and servants
Get safely away. Come, now.” Emma
Began walking, slowly so he would follow

Murray turned wordlessly
Scanning the trees
He strode quickly up the low slope
Emma peered hard between trunks and branches

Searching the gloom for a flash of red
This forest, the scene of countless
Family outings filled with basket lunches and games
How sinister it now seemed

Enid’s pies. The English had devoured them by now.
It was cold out here without a shawl
Her slippered feet wet in the April afternoon
Was she walking toward safety here in the hills

Or merely putting off the inevitable?
Would tonight be the night she would
Dwell in the house of the Lord?
And was it wrong to wish with all of her heart

She might see her Douglas once more?
“Come, Emma!” Murray called.
She ran, trying not to think. More important things now.
Staying alive was a place to start.

- Julia Smith, 2009

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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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