Poetry Train Monday - 96 - Not After That Look

Happy Easter to all who celebrate this springtime holiday.

Continuing with my found poetry series, here's a poem I've taken from my very first attempt at writing a novel. It's my only completed manuscript to date, and it needs a lot of reworking. But as with many writers, since this is the first novel-length character to inhabit my thoughts and my heart, this character will always be the most special to me.

Guthrie is a Highland Scot in the early 1820's, working on a lowland estate as the gamekeeper. The lady he serves is a newly-widowed countess, whom he recently helped return to the castle when he discovered her out on the grounds in only her sodden nightdress after a storm.

A terrible miscalculation has convinced Guthrie he must stop poaching from the estate, as he's been doing to save money for a new life in the Canadas. Guthrie informs his best friend and poaching partner that he won't be taking part in it anymore.

Click HERE for a previous poem about Guthrie.

I've based him on English actor Sean Bean. Lady Moncrieffe is based on Canadian actress Neve Campbell.

You can Ride the Poetry Train by clicking HERE.













Not After That Look


Guthrie left Lundy’s room
Above the storehouse
Headed back over fields
To his own rough cottage

No one about at this late hour

Just as well be noon
All the sleep he was likely to get
Worked up as he was
Paused in the night air

Head back, look at the stars

What he needed was a smoke
Boulder ahead a little ways
Sit himself down, light up his pipe
Collect himself

Smoke rising gracefully into the night

Nice to sit here
Only man awake in all of Scotland
Just God and Guthrie Carmichael
Sitting together and having a smoke

Thoughts like bait in a swollen stream

Sooner or later, these thoughts
Would arrange themselves
An actual plea
For forgiveness

Movement in the distance

Turned slightly
Peered into the gloom
Unholy shiver pure fright
Ran through him head to foot

Liquid movement, gliding paleness

Took pipe from mouth
Slid off the rock
Quiet as the ghostie there
A spirit loose in these parts?

Could well be a brand new ghost

He might be scared witless
If he was the first to see it
Wouldn’t that be something?
Crept along, gained steadily

Could make out a dress, a white dress

He raced ahead
More noise with increased speed
Skin along his neck crawling
Dare not steal a look behind him

Might lose footing in the dark

It would be upon him
In all its ghastly menace
Leaped down a small rise
Close to turf, eyes level to ground

Perhaps he would give this ghostie its name

Figure’s approach inexorable
Guthrie’s winded breathing quieted
Its face
He had to be imagining

It couldn’t be

The ghost was his mistress
Lady Moncrieffe
Had the lady died in the night?
Remorse for the injury he gave her

Flared hotly in his chest

Impossible
She had mended from that wound
An accident?
He followed again, wondering

Heaviness of her movements

Manner fluid, dreamlike
Dreamlike
Guthrie stopped cold
That morning he’d followed her on horseback

The morning after the storm

No one had spoken of it
As if it hadn’t taken place at all
Eventually this path would take her
To the road where they’d first met up

She was sleepwalking. Had to be.

Increased his pace a little
Didn’t take long to catch up with her
Stomach lurched again
Her eyes were wide open

She took several trancelike steps

She slowed and stopped
“Ma’am.” Guthrie touched the edge of his tam
She crossed her arms in front of her
“I don’t think he’ll be coming, after all.”

And she turned to walk back along the path

Guthrie dashed smartly to overtake her
Slowed to a walk
She looked at him
Her gaze traveling through him

Smile flittered across her lips

Eased next to Guthrie
Slipped her hand between his arm and waistcoat
He crooked his elbow
Arm and arm with Lady Moncrieffe

Nearly dragging him along with single-mindedness

The long walk to Kinnoull an unsettling stroll
Her bosom pressed against his elbow
Her hip brushing his thigh
Was she awake or asleep?

How could he be so fortunate among men

Coming across her each time
She took these strange odysseys?
Perhaps this worked as a penance
For not putting an end to his poaching

Sooner

If the Good Lord meant to show him
What it meant to be a shepherd
Who was Guthrie Carmichael to argue?
He would see his wayward lamb home

No harm done

No one the wiser again if they were lucky
Outline of castle loomed
In faint light of approaching dawn
No word had passed between them

They reached a door he'd never seen before

Could see that it gaped there, still open
Why the turmoil swirling in his stomach?
He led her to the doorway
Opened it a little wider

And passed her through

Extending the arm she’d been clutching
Till she was over the threshhold
He watched her feet
Assuring that she didn’t trip

Then he looked up into her face

Before he knew whether he was up
Down or turned on his ear
There she was - planting her lips on his
Lady Moncrieffe stepped back

Eyes trained on him

In the most unnerving manner
Shining with languorous flame
Before he had a chance to stammer anything coherent
The corners of her lips curled

A provocative smile

“I’ll wait for you,” she purred
Beginning to walk inside
She turned her head to glance at him
Lips closing over invitations unspoken

Lashes dropped to hide desire in her eyes

Then she was gone, swallowed into the shadows
Guthrie stood there for a long while
Unable to move out of the doorway
The words she’d spoken

Commanded him against any will of his own

Like a man from the old tales, her spell cast on him
And nothing he could do to resist her
Come now, lad. She’s dreaming.
That invitation was not meant for her gamekeeper

For whom, then?

Her poor husband, that’s who.
He reached into the darkness of Kinnoull
His fingers groped for the doorhandle
As if reaching into a hive

Crawling with bees

Carefully, he pulled the door shut
He would post himself on watch not too far away
Keep his eye out
In case she wandered again

He’d light up his pipe, finish his smoke

There’d be no sleep
Not for him
Not after that look
Into his ladyship’s eyes

- Julia Smith, 2009

Poetry Train Monday - 95 - God Knew Her Pledge

Today's found poem comes from my vampire WIP, featuring a Dark Ages Welsh warrior named Peredur. This poem introduces Tanwen, Peredur's betrothed. She waits for her warrior to return from the fighting against the raiding Irish - only to receive news she does not want to hear.

Ride the Poetry Train - click HERE.















God Knew Her Pledge


Fighter from Peredur’s war band
Stood with Father, talking
In a low voice
The two looked towards her

Tanwen’s pulse stopped

Mother stood near
Tanwen didn’t want her there
Didn’t want to hear words of comfort
Could not bear an embrace

That was not her beloved’s

Horrid shuddering started
Her teeth knocking together
Brother, sisters stared at her
One look in Father's eyes

And she knew

Tanwen turned, walked calmly from them all

Path before her shimmered
Tears balanced on lashes
She knew these dips, rises blind
Feet carried her to crag overlooking the bay

Dampness beaded her hair

Awash in tears, inside and out
Seeped unbroken stream
Thought her heart had broken
If she had a heart left to break

Sea birds glided between coast and surf
Crying out her anguish with their shrieks

Why?
Why love such a proud man?
Peredur never listened
She told him he was all she needed

He kept leaving her to fight

To win a name for himself, he’d said
So Father would agree to a match
Where did that leave her?
Betrothed to a corpse

Sobs punched their way through her chest at last

Curled into herself, clutched tight
With arms that could not stop the mourning
Could hear noises, wondered where they came from
Even as her throat ached from crying

She saw nothing except his green eyes
Felt nothing but the whisper of his breath
This couldn’t be real
He was too powerful

Too swift, too expert a fighter

To go down to a spear
The man was mistaken
Peredur was alive somewhere
He couldn’t be gone

Why did she totter on rocks
Slick with mist? Why did she want the
Pain in her chest to stop squeezing? Why
Wasn’t it Peredur arrived at her father’s door

To finally ask for her hand?

Wiping sleeve 'cross her face
Tanwen emerged from the darkness of shock
Felt a presence behind her
Tanwen paused as she turned

Cavan, son of village wise woman

Pale gray eyes gazed upon her
As though he knew
What lay screaming in her heart
Shaking her head, tears starting anew

“It can’t be! It can’t be true!”

Cavan gestured to boulder behind them
“Come and sit with me awhile.”
Cavan helped her to sit
Tanwen’s face felt pummeled

By so much crying

Where could tears come from
When she felt so numb inside?
Cavan turned object in his hand
Her gaze rested on a ring

The ring Peredur’s father had given him







“Where did you get that?”
“Peddler sold it to mother.
She held it in her hand
She saw it all before her.

Everything that happened."
Tanwen fought the urge to grab it
Cavan held it out, dropped it
Onto her outstretched palm

Metal touched her skin
She thought of the ring slipped
From Peredur’s cold hand
Reality ripped a gasp from her throat

Ring nearly tumbled onto scraggly brush

Cavan wrapped solid hands around hers
Ensuring her grip with his own
Tanwen sagged till forehead touched her wrists
If Cavan were not there she would pass out

Crying started again

She could not listen to it
As though
She were someone else
She would not hold her beloved’s ring

If he still lived

She never spoke her pledge of fidelity
Before the village
She’d said it often in her heart
God knew her pledge to be true

He knew that today she became a widow

- Julia Smith, 2009

Poetry Train Monday - 94 - Judgement and Acceptance

Today's found poem comes from my vampire WIP. You can read an excerpt HERE. I've used the villanelle form, but once again haven't tried to rhyme anything, as that would interfere with the found poem format.

Peredur is a Dark Age Welsh warrior who becomes a vampire. This poem is taken from two scenes where Peredur struggles with his new state of being. I've based Peredur on Scottish actor Gerard Butler.

Ride the Poetry Train - click HERE.
















Judgement and Acceptance


The sun went down. Peredur opened eyes
Filled with dirt. Staggered to his feet - the grave
Is this what had become of him? Hunger

The blood lust took him hard. Had never known
What true need was, when he’d lived as a man
The sun went down. Peredur opened eyes

Smell of man came to him on a faint breeze
"Who’s there?" rang out before Peredur leaped
Is this what had become of him? Hunger

Yet how could he grieve when he could not cry?
Let loose an unnerving howl of anguish
The sun went down. Peredur opened eyes

Beat fists gainst ground. Saw two feet, hem of gown
Scrambled to knees, bent deeply, head to earth
Is this what had become of him? Hunger

I AM SENT BY ALL THAT IS. YOUR ANGEL
A look held both judgement and acceptance
The sun went down. Peredur opened eyes
Is this what had become of him? Hunger

- Julia Smith, 2009

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!