Aquarelle
Starcrossed Seafarer
- Joined
- Jun 16, 2010
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- so/sp
This is a poem I wrote as kind of a re-writing/parody of Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott."
Knighthood’s Flower Strikes Again
I.
Outside the walls of ghastly gray,
The lively lawn and river lay
And farms where rows of barley sway,
Bathed in golden light of day
That warms the island of Shalott.
The crops there wrest themselves from soil
So the folk don’t need to toil,
Lest the thought of working spoil
Their trips to nearby Camelot.
The river winds between the trees,
The way to Camelot it leads.
And playful butterflies do tease
Young children as, with dirty knees,
They act out scenes from Camelot.
A lady watches children play
From inside her tower of gray;
They whisper that she must be fay,
The Lady of Shalott.
II.
She glimpses peasants selling bread,
Couples who have just been wed,
Kings and queens in royal red
(All backwards, for they’re mirrorèd)
Riding through Shalott.
Her web she weaves through dark and light,
(Although she cannot see at night)
In hopes that someday it just might
Adorn the walls of Camelot.
With threads of richest gold and blue
She renders, beautiful and true,
The characters her mirror’s view
Reflects (despite its copp’ry hue),
The Lady of Shalott.
Now one may see it as adverse
To view one’s models in reverse.
But it makes sense if one is cursed
If one looks at Camelot.
The cursèd lady oft does sigh,
“Oh me, I’m cursed but know not why,
Or even whether I should die
Or what if I should set my eye
To look on Camelot.
The world seen mirrored can be a bore,
Especially with this gray décor.
I half-wish I could see no more
Mere shadows of Shalott.â€
III.
One day her copper mirror caught
The image of Sir Lancelot,
His arms of gleaming metal wrought,
His charger at a gentle trot
On his way to Camelot.
A knight before a lady kneeled
On the device upon his shield.
For any maid his sword he’d wield,
The good and humble Lancelot.
Sir Lance, the brave and gallant knight
Was every blushing maid’s delight.
Unequaled in courage and might,
He also stood a goodly height,
The tall Sir Lancelot!
Courteous he was as well--
He spared the lives of those he fell!
Her lust for him she could not quell,
The Lady of Shalott.
True lovers know lust love is not,
From Cupid’s bow it is not shot,
But she was young and so she thought
She loved this bold knight Lancelot,
The childish Lady of Shalott.
She thought his face was very fair
(Although his visor he did wear).
She said, “I’d gladly die to stare
Directly at Sir Lancelot.â€
She daydreamed that he’d take her up
Behind him on his horse’s rump.
He’d kiss her then shout “Giddy up!â€
And on that fair steed they’d gallop
Away to Camelot.
She said, “So this’ll be my doom,
But still I’m going to leave this room
And they can write upon my tomb,
‘The Lady of Shalott.’â€
“Lance, wait!†she cried and stood up fast
And promptly fell upon her ass
She also fell against the glass--
Seven years bad luck, alas,
For Lady of Shalott.
“The curse has come upon me now,â€
She cried, “I knew it would somehow
But nonetheless I make this vow:
To reach Sir Lancelot.â€
IV.
So she found a little boat
That had been floating in the moat.
In case she died, she held a note,
And too, across the prow she wrote,
‘The Lady of Shalott.’
As on the stream she drifted west,
She lay down in the boat to rest,
And she clasped against her breast
The letter for Sir Lancelot.
She sang, and she was heard by all--
It sounded like the blackbird’s caw.
Slowly rain began to fall
But she’d not thought to bring a shawl
To sunny Camelot.
The rain fell hard, the thunder rolled,
At night the stormy air got cold
And froze the lady’s hair of gold,
Poor Lady of Shalott.
Seven years, it seems, was wrong,
Because she did not live that long.
The wind was cold and very strong
And soon she could not sing her song,
The Lady of Shalott.
At last it was Gawaine who found her
And everybody gathered ‘round her
To see the soakèd mop that crowned her
There at Camelot.
Dead and robed in ghostly white,
She must have been a scary sight
For every bold and noble knight
Felt a cold and haunting fright,
But brave Gawaine and Lancelot.
“She held a note,†said Sir Gawaine,
“And though it’s soggy from the rain,
It seems this girl was called Elaine.â€
He gave the note to Lancelot
Who read aloud, “My dearest Lance
You know me not, but at first glance
I loved you. If I’m dead, by chance,
Please pray for me, that God may grant
Me peace. Elaine, of yon Shalott.â€
He said, “May Heaven grant her grace,
She has a very pretty face.
On top of that, she had good taste,
The Lady of Shalott!â€
Knighthood’s Flower Strikes Again
I.
Outside the walls of ghastly gray,
The lively lawn and river lay
And farms where rows of barley sway,
Bathed in golden light of day
That warms the island of Shalott.
The crops there wrest themselves from soil
So the folk don’t need to toil,
Lest the thought of working spoil
Their trips to nearby Camelot.
The river winds between the trees,
The way to Camelot it leads.
And playful butterflies do tease
Young children as, with dirty knees,
They act out scenes from Camelot.
A lady watches children play
From inside her tower of gray;
They whisper that she must be fay,
The Lady of Shalott.
II.
She glimpses peasants selling bread,
Couples who have just been wed,
Kings and queens in royal red
(All backwards, for they’re mirrorèd)
Riding through Shalott.
Her web she weaves through dark and light,
(Although she cannot see at night)
In hopes that someday it just might
Adorn the walls of Camelot.
With threads of richest gold and blue
She renders, beautiful and true,
The characters her mirror’s view
Reflects (despite its copp’ry hue),
The Lady of Shalott.
Now one may see it as adverse
To view one’s models in reverse.
But it makes sense if one is cursed
If one looks at Camelot.
The cursèd lady oft does sigh,
“Oh me, I’m cursed but know not why,
Or even whether I should die
Or what if I should set my eye
To look on Camelot.
The world seen mirrored can be a bore,
Especially with this gray décor.
I half-wish I could see no more
Mere shadows of Shalott.â€
III.
One day her copper mirror caught
The image of Sir Lancelot,
His arms of gleaming metal wrought,
His charger at a gentle trot
On his way to Camelot.
A knight before a lady kneeled
On the device upon his shield.
For any maid his sword he’d wield,
The good and humble Lancelot.
Sir Lance, the brave and gallant knight
Was every blushing maid’s delight.
Unequaled in courage and might,
He also stood a goodly height,
The tall Sir Lancelot!
Courteous he was as well--
He spared the lives of those he fell!
Her lust for him she could not quell,
The Lady of Shalott.
True lovers know lust love is not,
From Cupid’s bow it is not shot,
But she was young and so she thought
She loved this bold knight Lancelot,
The childish Lady of Shalott.
She thought his face was very fair
(Although his visor he did wear).
She said, “I’d gladly die to stare
Directly at Sir Lancelot.â€
She daydreamed that he’d take her up
Behind him on his horse’s rump.
He’d kiss her then shout “Giddy up!â€
And on that fair steed they’d gallop
Away to Camelot.
She said, “So this’ll be my doom,
But still I’m going to leave this room
And they can write upon my tomb,
‘The Lady of Shalott.’â€
“Lance, wait!†she cried and stood up fast
And promptly fell upon her ass
She also fell against the glass--
Seven years bad luck, alas,
For Lady of Shalott.
“The curse has come upon me now,â€
She cried, “I knew it would somehow
But nonetheless I make this vow:
To reach Sir Lancelot.â€
IV.
So she found a little boat
That had been floating in the moat.
In case she died, she held a note,
And too, across the prow she wrote,
‘The Lady of Shalott.’
As on the stream she drifted west,
She lay down in the boat to rest,
And she clasped against her breast
The letter for Sir Lancelot.
She sang, and she was heard by all--
It sounded like the blackbird’s caw.
Slowly rain began to fall
But she’d not thought to bring a shawl
To sunny Camelot.
The rain fell hard, the thunder rolled,
At night the stormy air got cold
And froze the lady’s hair of gold,
Poor Lady of Shalott.
Seven years, it seems, was wrong,
Because she did not live that long.
The wind was cold and very strong
And soon she could not sing her song,
The Lady of Shalott.
At last it was Gawaine who found her
And everybody gathered ‘round her
To see the soakèd mop that crowned her
There at Camelot.
Dead and robed in ghostly white,
She must have been a scary sight
For every bold and noble knight
Felt a cold and haunting fright,
But brave Gawaine and Lancelot.
“She held a note,†said Sir Gawaine,
“And though it’s soggy from the rain,
It seems this girl was called Elaine.â€
He gave the note to Lancelot
Who read aloud, “My dearest Lance
You know me not, but at first glance
I loved you. If I’m dead, by chance,
Please pray for me, that God may grant
Me peace. Elaine, of yon Shalott.â€
He said, “May Heaven grant her grace,
She has a very pretty face.
On top of that, she had good taste,
The Lady of Shalott!â€