Lord Byron Poetry Cycle

Our Hero Rises

Perched on a White Willow,

a sparrow raised it’s voice in song

to sooth a jilted bride.

Like a guardian,

it sat a her on the ledge of the window,

trilling sweet lullabies

while scanning Holles Street

for any sign of danger.

He will turn the world upside down,

the bride would whisper to the sparrow,

her hand hovering over her swollen stomach.

A legend among legends.

In the early hours of the night,

a child wailed and a sparrow

sang along.

Open Throat, Mad Jack

Open Throat Mad Jack died by his own hand

a young boy would tell anyone

who was willing to listen.

Coldstream Guard with a gun in his hand,

the flag at his back,

married to an heiress in Aberdeenshire.

I, Mad Jack, take thee, Cathrine Gordon,

to be my lawful wedded wife,

for richer or poor,

this is my solemn vow,

but with the fortune gone,

he was on the run.

Open Throat Mad Jack died by his own hand

an abandoned son would tell anyone

who was willing to listen

 Le Diable Boiteux

Lame Boy, they called me,

whispering behind my back,

taunting and teasing me. 

Lame Boy limped through the halls,

head down, eyes on the floor,

his lips locked by an imaginary key.

I called myself Le Diable Boiteux,

The Lame Devil, hero of the night.

There was nothing impairing me,

Nothing holding me back. 

Bruises were battle scars across my face,

Proudly earned from a scuffle

With Lame Boy’s schoolmates.

Unrequited

Mary never paid attention

to the boy with hearts in his eyes.

Mary never considered accompanying

him to a theatre show or opera.

Mary never said more than a word

to the boy that followed her like a lost puppy.

And when his work sold,

Mary stretched her hands across the country

to capture him in a tight hold.

But no letter, no word did he send

to Mary the Vain .

Third time is the charm, they say,

but it was the second that did it.

Under the roof of a secret room,

in black and white, they married.

While he fell into despair,

she would grin and bear it.

And when their anniversary came,

he sat alone in his chair.

Daddy’s Girl

She worked with numbers instead of words.

She thoughts in functions and expressions

instead of abstract images and sugar coated vocable.

She’d grow up to teach a school

and nudge the technological future in the right direction.

He’d take her in his arms and recite

from famous books of poetry, in hopes that she

would follow in his footsteps.

His smoothing voice was in her ear until she was eight.

And when the time came to choose,

she laid a book of mathematics at his grave.

Our Hero Falls

I.

Perched on a Syrian Juniper,

the outstretched wings of a raven blocked

the hot Greek sun from streaming into the feverish cell

of Greece’s hero.

Let not my body be hacked, or be sent to England…

Lay me in the first corner without pomp or nonsense.

Below the warrior’s window, a sea

of people gathered, men pacing

and women wringing their aprons in their hands.

Now I shall go to sleep.

II.

No honor was given to the hero of Greece,

to the legendary poet,

 to  a man of his land.

His grave lay barren,

not a flower in sight,

no one breathing for miles.

Let not my body… be sent to England.

The wishes of the body was denied,

the heart will forever dwell in Missplonghi.