Persona

         I looked back to see how many poems I've written for class, and it's only four! It felt like so many more, probably because it takes three or four false starts to get going.

         This week especially I wanted to write something that resounded in the soul, or at least that made you stop and think, and think. But I thought I had run out of power--nothing I wrote was working, and I didn't have a lot of time. Stress+not much time+headache+fireworks in my vision≠a good poem.

        I've  played in a lot of piano auditions and recitals for the past eight years. Whenever I was worried about a big octave jump my piano teacher always says, "It never hurts to pray." And for poetry, too, it doesn't doesn't hurt. Actually, it helps.

Notes: This poem is related to my Wynna story.

Free photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net.

"Prisoner's Lament"

You, there. Guard.

See? I've eaten all the hard

bread. I've made my bed,

or at least, folded the gray cotton you said

is my royal coverlet.

What is your name? We haven't actually met.

King Durim, is my father,

and I am Princess Lili. You can tell by my silver collar,

which your fellow soldiers snatched from me

before they slung me on the back of a coal lizard and stole me across the sea

to your land. There. I've

introduced myself. And I will call you Blithe,

because of all the guards I’ve met

You talk and smile the most. Which is to say, not at all. Yet

I try to use my imagination.

Botheration—

I'm trying to keep things light here but

my creativity is hard put when your mouth is shut

tighter than a dragon's and I have to keep

up all the talk!

Beg’ pardon, Blithe. I shouldn't speak in mock-

optimism and cheeriness.

I'll stop and fold this pretty gray nightdress.

Blithe, do you know what my people say about me?

They say I’m a foreigner and shouldn't be

heiress to the throne.

But it was my father who found me, brought me home--

I said I was sorry before,

and I still am, Blithe, for being sore

at you. But I'm not sorry for being

hopeful. I keep seeing

my father when I close my eyes.

No other duke or prince, no,

not even your highness Gera looked so

grand at the ball. I see my father in my mind's eye

standing tall and solid, with the starry sky

of Dorinth emblazoned on his chest.

He wore his silver collar and his best

sword at his side.

I will not cry. I will not cry.

I am not crying. It's dusty, and...

All right, I am. But it's only because of my hand.

You know, the coal lizard burnt it, and my

wrists have welts from the ropes tied too tight.

Do you know, the day before the New Year's Eve Ball

He said I wasn’t to dance?

I'd be behind a row of guards—my usual fence—

but I should've been thankful he let me go at all.

It's just, I felt like a dragon with its wings bound.

I've never run free, servants and guards always all around.

I told him he should had left me in Solong

I triumphed at his crinkled brow. But that was wrong.

I have fought him before, fought His Majesty the King,

and now it makes me want to wring

my own neck. The man who people call in songs

Your Majesty, Wise Counselor, Iron Soldier

I have called tyrant and unfair,

and I was wrong.

I was wrong.

Have you heard my father went to fight the old Pine's Wars?

On foreign soil, amidst the rubble of the final battle

Dorinthians, Solongians, the enemy strewn everywhere like cattle

in the streets, he crawled among the bodies on all fours.

He found me by my cries.

I shut my eyes

now, picture him

Pinpointing my small voice in the din.

Death before, behind, beside, I wonder why

he didn’t leave me there to die.

I wish I had been there.

Then maybe I could have seen just what he saw in me

Before I could prove what kind of daughter I would be

And yet...I was there.

And, Blithe, I hope you're ready

The Iron Soldier will arrive

If he isn't here already.

King Gera may be sorry he took Durim's daughter hostage.

When Father comes I will admit my stupid folly

I'll tell him I was wrong and that I'm sorry. I am sorry.