Wednesday 12 October 2022

Three Poems by Auriane Loreley

 


Title: The tale of the Queen who turned into a bird

(Based on “The Blue Bird” from Marie-Catherine d'Aulnoy, “The tale of the Queen who turned into a bird” spins a re-interpreted story)

 

In the topmost tower of a castle

The fairest flower waits for hours, to see

Her lover: “O Great Lord, I beseech thee

On my knees. Please, cease my uphill battle!”

 

“I am sick of all of this. May I see

My King Charming and feel his kiss? Singing

Lovely, I wish to hear him confessing

How intense is his fervent love for me”

 

He turned into a bird due to the curse.

My heart should be hurt, broken, from such art.

Instead, it brings blessing: “My King, thou art

The purest shape in the whole universe”

 

“O beautiful is, thy deep blue my Grace”

May this divine grape, offered by the fay,

Turns my shape into the same azure jay

As thee. With wings, I will escape this place.

 

After tasting the grape, as bright as jade,

The distress I confessed to my realm, blessed

My behest. From now on, what I possessed

Was a small shape, singing a serenade

 

On this cold night, I cross the prison bars

And take my flight. I fly, follow the white

Moonlight, and finally, find thee. How bright

Is the tune thou singest, beneath the stars

 

How melodious is thy voice my love

Ah! I will never forget it. Now, we

Will always be together. On this tree

Thou wilt sing forever, with thy sweet dove.

 

 

Title: Cena, the bloodthirsty land

(Cena's origin is Latin. It means "The Last Supper", the final meal that Jesus shared with his apostles in Jerusalem before his crucifixion.)

 

The same pain happens again and again.

Many men line up with the same request:

“Grand Saint, have pity… I wanna be blessed!”

I answer: “Fear not, you come not in vain”

 

On a table adorned with red gemstones

Are gathered holy relics—a bloody

Dagger and chalice. Although my body

Suffers, it is far from showing the bones

 

“Welcome to Cena!” The mythical land

Where no one is sick, where all wounds are healed

If you return hurt from the battlefield,

For those in need, I will offer my hand

 

Come in front of the one they call the Saint,

Come to me. I would do anything to

Save the weak and dying. Each one of you

Will hold the chalice, so cease your complaint

 

This is where the heavenly scene begins.

To fulfil my duty, I cut myself

With the bloody dagger. As you yourself

Stated, I have committed any sins

 

Believe it or not, since I was born, my

Blood was blessed by God. Now, take the chalice

And put it to your lips. There’s no malice

In my cathedral, you will just feel high

 

Join Cena, to live a prosperous life.

With healthy soldiers, we will never fall

Into enemy hands. Look how our small

Kingdom has enlarged by winning all strife

 

Know that all the rumours you have heard from

The other lands are false. “Our land is not

Maleficent.” If you hear a gunshot

From us, a thriving land you will become

 

Just listen to the voice of those I healed.

Their joys make endlessly repeat, this song

Of blessing. It will continue as long

As I live. Sadly, my future is sealed

 

Everybody thinks I cannot die, due

To my blood. If only they knew the truth

Each day cuts accumulate, since my youth.

But I cannot fail, for each one of you

 

For Cena, I will continue to give

My dear life, until I die. Before it

Happens, I will make sure all lands submit

To me: “Ah, how long will your country live?”

 

 

Title: Guardian of Ichor (or: The Blood of the Gods)

 

[I]

Quoth she: "Wilt thou slumber with me?"

Quoth I: "Aye, your Highness, I will"

 

Pearls of dew arise at eventide.

Within the walls of a secret bower—a tryst.

A divine princess, thou art. Thy valiant knight, I am.

 

The refulgent lights of tapers illume thy smooth pale body bare.

Rosy-cheeked, raven-haired, azure orbs, incarnadine lips...

Irresistible pulchritude, I repine for thee

 

Whenas, I behold thy fair visage

I oft remember the myriads of mortals, I slay.

On the morrow, anew, foes will come, apace.

By my troth, I love thee. Mine heart is thine

 

A myth was spread through the realm:

"If thou drinkest the Nectar, thou shalt ascend to immortality"

In sooth, in thy frail body, runs through your veins

—The delectable Ichor—

I am sick. Sick of Ichor.

 

O God! Hearken unto me, I beseech thee.

Grant thy blessing, Holy Father

Praise my noble quest, slake my thirst!

Grant me a sole gout of my Goddess...

 

[II]

Amid this bower, laying abed with thee, I feel feverous.

Panting bosoms, French kisses, clasped in mine arms,

I oft deflower thee—climax.

Aweary, henceforth, thou art a slumbering princess.

 

In these times of crisis, methought:

"If thou drinkest the Nectar, thou shalt ascend to immortality"

Neath the bed, my glaive. Ere thy lids lift, with great delicacy,

The tip of my glaive scratches, thy slender finger.

 

Mine eyne behold in awe, thy golden rivulet

—The delectable Ichor—

For a sole gout of immortality, for thee, my princess

My oath as Guardian, my pride as Knight till the end.

 

Nectar melts in my mouth

—The delectable Ichor—

Wherefore? Wherefore, mine heart aches?

I XXX

 

O God! I suffer the wrath of God:

"Ye are all fools, mere mortals.

If thou drinkest the Nectar, thou shalt ascend to heaven

Thy death is nigh!"

 

[III]

I am sick. Sick of Ichor.

Darkling wit... Darkling urge...

Mine heart is cleft in twain

I slay thee...

 

Dirge within the walls of a drear castle. In their death throes—my princess.

Mine hands were imbrued of thine Elixir of Death.

Mine heart was elated, on this sole French kiss filled with Ambrosia.

 

O God! Hearken unto me, I beseech thee.

I beg thy forgiveness, Holy Father

Bless me! Grace me! Grant my highest noble quest!

Ascend our souls to the same heaven of heavens

To abide forever by the side of my Goddess

 

Quoth she: "Wilt thou slumber with me?"

Quoth I: "Aye, your Highness, I will"

 

Adieu.


Auriane Loreley has a passion for poetry. The poems she writes usually offer a (dark) story, mixed with sound effects like rhythms and iambic, making reading pure and pleasant. A poem of this kind was published in Alternate Route or Noctivagant Press.


 

 

 

 


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