"courtier" poems
Power is indeed a corruptive force,
Through all of mankind’s history
This has always been true.
Emperors, Kings, Potentates,
Popes, Presidents and Despots too.
Gathering near the Throne are the
Eager Courtier leeches reaching to
touch the anointed one’s robe.
Declaring their undying loyalty,
In the process selling their souls.
Their rewards, a speck of personal power,
Castles and new riches of gold.
Like their Master, the entitled ones
will lie and cheat, while ignoring
The principals of right and good.
Believing “Decency” is but a
poor man’s word, Never uttered
within the hearing of the Ruler.
Never a considered artifact of
absolute power.
The slaves, serfs, the common people
Matter not, but to serve the Ruler.
The power elite will start needless wars,
or offer up sacrificial lambs, all to distract
the unrest of the common man.
They will suppress human rights,
free speech and defame, banish
or imprison their detractors.
All merely smoke and mirrors to conceal,
Controlling agendas of personal greed.
From ancient times down to today
This cycle repeats. Now we are living
our own Textbooks history of tomorrow.
Kingdoms and Nations have perished
From this kind of poisonous corruption,
Needless to say, it will happen again.
Perhaps it already is.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
CAME the great Popinjay
Smelling his nosegay:
In cages like grots
The birds sang gavottes.
'Herodiade's flea
Was named sweet Amanda,
She danced like a lady
From here to Uganda.
Oh, what a dance was there!
Long-haired, the candle
Salome-like tossed her hair
To a dance tune by Handel.' . . .
Dance they still? Then came
Courtier Death,
Blew out the candle flame
With civet breath.
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Mute thy Coronation—
Meek my Vive le roi,
Fold a tiny courtier
In thine Ermine, Sir,
There to rest revering
Till the pageant by,
I can murmur broken,
Master, It was I—
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~~<>~~
Kings and queens
and progeny
all work out their Destiny
Subtle courtier
ruthless knave
demon spawn
ambitious slave
Battles fought
and sometimes lost
sometimes won
at dearest cost
Summer lion
springtime lamb
are slaughtered
in the winter's calm
The company of
enemies and friends
all are one in the end
The marriage vow
the ties that bind
the power of the concubine
Those wheels of power
grind men's bones
when they play
the Game of Thrones
SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/15/2014
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
Love blossomed in the darkest night
Morn's gilding beams to spite
Night Primrose preened by tender blight
As Sphinx Moth, soft tips caress; sugary nectar slight
Perfumed aroma doth prating, intoxicated courtier incite
Glazed petals with dewy fans stream delight
Golden cup a succouring armchair from which passions alight
Delicate, cream veil eclipses pallid, stolid moonlight
With availing breeze your dreamy parasol on Cupid's wing takes flight
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 6:23 PM UTC
Once upon a fair evening's bloom,
A fair maiden did make a young
Courtier swoon.
With a touch of the hand
And a kiss of the lips,
She ensured that love
Was not to be
Missed.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC
THE moments passed as at a play;
I had the wisdom love brings forth;
I had my share of mother-wit,
And yet for all that I could say,
And though I had her praise for it,
A cloud blown from the cut-throat North
Suddenly hid Love's moon away.
Believing every word I said,
I praised her body and her mind
Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,
And vanity her footfall light,
Yet we, for all that praise, could find
Nothing but darkness overhead.
We sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she'd not said a word,
That even the best of love must die,
And had been savagely undone
Were it not that Love upon the cry
Of a most ridiculous little bird
Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.
ALTHOUGH crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,
And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone,
Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping-place
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone.
These lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,
These, these remain, but I record what-s gone. A crowd
Will gather, and not know it walks the very street
Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud
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Wait till the Majesty of Death
Invests so mean a brow!
Almost a powdered Footman
Might dare to touch it now!
Wait till in Everlasting Robes
That Democrat is dressed,
Then prate about “Preferment”—
And “Station,” and the rest!
Around this quiet Courtier
Obsequious Angels wait!
Full royal is his Retinue!
Full purple is his state!
A Lord, might dare to lift the Hat
To such a Modest Clay
Since that My Lord, “the Lord of Lords”
Receives unblushingly!
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Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,
And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone,
Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping-place
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone.
These lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,
These, these remain, but I record what's gone. A crowd
Will gather, and not know it walks the very street
Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud.
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The brides have passed all of the sentence tests
that Polyhymnia wanted. She asked
them to teach us how the earth became
a sullen crib. She thought the brides should sing
of nightmares and miracles, not freedoms.
If we have come to know our strengths, she said,
then perhaps we have come to love our failures
too much. Write it. This is a test.
*If Polyhymnia, then nothing is transitory,
just the vast ebbing out of what always flows away.
As Polyhymnia is, there is no sentence here,
just the quiet susurration in her lips.
Of Polyhymnia, her stone lips breathe silence,
for espousal has always been a poem to awake to.
For ancient, aimless, almost airless Polyhymnia,
the courtier of our language,
the world is made up for us. Always.*
© Jim Kleinhenz
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
"Consider it” the courtier said to the king
"The Gods would never let the Reaper count among the battle-dead
The young and strong whom love has newly bound
As blissful newly wed”
And so it seemed!
When searching the war-torn land
No grave was found to mark the stain
Of newly wed, newly slain
Thus must they have triumphed with lovers' might
Two hearts in every lover's breast
What foe could stand the steel that love drove
To cleave helm, rend armour, sunder bone
“What mighty, fell warriors these must be
In the springtime of their love”
So spread the Courtier's revelation
The grim weaponry of devotion unmasked
The King, foes at hand and hard pressed
Now quickly formed his shock battalion of lovers
Whose brides, close as a skin to the battle, would suffer
To see Hell break loose between vows and wedding bed
Wedding parties among armourers and farriers
A wedding draught for courage
Gold bands not yet blood-warmed
On hands raised in “Adieu!”
Only through battle the taste of heaven on earth to be had
The love-zealots drove wild through the enemy to find
Among baggage train and camp kitchens
A familiar, foreign rear-guard, devoted and adoring
Who overjoyed to meet victorious warriors
And at such short notice could not countenance the worst
And, as angels, would have felled these men
With easy smiles and tender greetings
Whence came the counter-revelation
Of us-and-them and just-the-same
And wheeling, reeling heads and hearts
Turned back to battle and were condemned to mortality
The noble and sanctified were thus slain
Justice was served to kings, courtiers, lovers and mere others
And by brutal blow and fickle chance the victors wrote history
And made justice, made their heaven on earth.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 10:26 AM UTC
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of musty newspaper
mortared with decades of dust
solidified in grease, cemented in decay.
you constructed an impenetrable fortress.
your storehouse is filled with broken plastic,
moldy photographs, crusty nick-knacks.
here you count worthless tin trophies,
shattered glass and empty bottles.
you're drowning in your treasury.
there was a time i knew that castle well:
palace, gaol, it held me fast.
i could be captive or courtier
but your role never changed:
benevolent or tyrant, king you reigned.
but a castle of refuse cannot stand forever;
an empire built on brutality topples.
subjects eventually revolt
and refugees seek brighter days;
fleeing or fighting, the kingdom falls.
yet you remain, clinging to the rubble:
scraps of paper, broken records.
rusted memories and fossilized mistakes.
wandering towers of unread books,
a broken king repents alone.
and here i am, a knight on a horse
to sweep in and hear you, to dig you out.
but when you cry for help i falter--
cautioned, i yet hold out my hand,
but you can't let go and i'm afraid to go back.
it's gone and we're gone and she's so far away.
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of words you can't take back
mortared with decades of mistrust
solidified in guilt, cemented by hurt.
you're trapped in your pitiful fortress,
and i cannot get you out.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
Sweet rain drizzles on fields of purple Heather.
You sit, watching through your latticed casement sill.
With this kind of pure, unmarred, untainted weather,
You can skip the distasteful daily ritual of taking your pill.
Then the sky clears, leaving only a damp reminder.
You can go outside and walk the misty grounds.
“Marco!” you hear. You know you must find her.
You start to run, while doing so; you hear all of natures sounds.
All in due time, the mist starts to clear.
You feel the Morning Star welcome you in its rays.
Thinking, pondering, it is clarity you fear.
You want to go back to the dark, where everyone else stays.
You hear her familiar feminine laughter.
You stop to see a tempting shady tree by the sea.
You are quickly reminded you must be quick to go after her.
You have to wonder, where she might happen to be.
While this game can go on for hours,
“Polo!” you scream in a loud raspy voice.
You see a figure, but the picture soon sours.
As you run closer, you realize that only you have this choice.
A full grown woman, resorts to darting behind trees.
To escape her pursuer, her courtier, her lover in secret.
But then she falls on her knees.
And tells you a secret that must be forever kept.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
The one I gave my heart to
I took it back on the day she left
swore never to see her again ever
I have not set eyes on her ever since
So what will a contrived courtier do to me
is my heart that valueless to be offered like confetti
is my idea of love a kiss-less bride without mutual passions
mind focus and repetitions are mere tools of the trade to journalists
no stress or distress for detachment is necessary to write objectively
scream it loud and over and over again the childish errant are funny
the snide silly antics of face-less cowards, smelly bullies dumb *****
so evident its rendered dismissive, irrelevant as are their complexes
laughing stocks and pathetic under-achievers playing remote control
we're talking a matured confident self assured trained mind not a yob
not softened, not frightened, not broken down or cowered, no, no, no
So do your worst.............
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 8:16 PM UTC
[Enter Marco, a young Milanese courtier.]
_It is he, is it not, whose honeyed barbs drip with sweet condescension, and whose kisses taint fair Bianca’s lips with similar speech? Behold, how he frames her vision to reflect his own and directs her preferences accordingly.
Fie, I have been April’s fool in believing Antonio my ally. His encouragement was as sweetmeats to a greedy child; but I have chipped a tooth on that candy-coated morsel and found its centre to be flavoured with deceit.
My cousin Bianca, whose name speaks directly to her nature, whose light once made shadows dance for joy; how extinguished she appears now. For as Antonio sparkles and splutters at her side, her brilliance flickers and fades.
Lo, how he has seeded his untruths within her honest heart. His lies smuggled like contraband, his blandishments the articles of his trade. God’s wounds! Such a purveyor of frippery and falsehood I have never met the equal of.
It is high time to confront this sneak thief in his lurking-hole and to uncloak his creeping connivance. I shall bottle my rival’s words and choose carefully the occasion for their uncorking; then pour for the crowd a rich liquor of ripe requital._
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 3:03 AM UTC
We court our own defeat.
Aqua Regia in our cups
Hubris curled up at our feet.
The throne is a fickle thing,
Jesters are sequestered
By whims of alabaster
Rose crowned Queens.
The King is an utter fool,
Barons are not your friend.
The Joker always finds
The dungeon in the end.
Oubliettes of our own design,
Gossamer wrought chains
Webs spun within our minds.
Apr 29, 2025
Apr 29, 2025 at 3:24 PM UTC
i moonwalk, halo skewed and shredded.
sleep talk, mouth twisted, heart burning.
i am not an astronaut or an angel
or a small child- not anymore.
i used to be ethereal with stars in my eyes.
i used to be young and full of promise.
(promise me you see the gold
promise me you won't go blind)
i fall forward, my face buried in imagination,
i haul the sword, to cut this heart in half.
i'm not a soldier, or a courtier
or whole, i never was.
but i used to be ethereal.
oh!
i used to be, i used to be, i used to be...
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
an American
tree with
mandarin flute
that made
cute in
her high
shoes where
courtier still
glazed midland
snow with
mistletoe on
this street
as lit
for shop
till the
new year
was shone.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Criss-cross, Wandering Rocks
Scylla and Charybdis I cross.
At the crossroads where I walk,
Which path do I go, am I lost?
What is evil, what is light?
The courtier chose silk or samite?
Do our leaders know, or do we fight?
What exactly is wrong and what is right?
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Power is indeed a corruptive force,
Through all of mankind’s history
This has always been true.
Emperors, Kings, Potentates,
Popes, Presidents and Despots too.
Gathering near the Throne are the
Eager Courtier leeches reaching to
touch the anointed one’s robe.
Declaring their undying loyalty,
In the process selling their souls.
Their rewards, a speck of personal
power, Castles and more riches of gold.
Like their Master, the entitled ones
will lie and cheat, while ignoring
The principals of right and good.
Believing “Decency” is but a poor
man’s word, never uttered within
the hearing of their Ruler.
Truth never a considered artifact of
his desired absolute corrupt power.
To the Ruler the slaves, serfs, the
little common people matter not,
but to serve him and his enablers.
He and his power elite will start
needless wars, or offer up sacrificial
lambs, for deportation all to distract
the unrest of the little people.
They will suppress human rights,
free speech and defame, banish
or imprison their detractors, ignore
our laws and our constitution, tread
on our flag and urinate on our history.
Their smiles and lies are all merely smoke
and mirrors to conceal, their controlling
agendas of limitless personal greed.
Telling us it's all for our own good and
will make our lives and nation great again.
From ancient times down to today this
egomaniacal cycle and agenda repeats.
Kingdoms and Nations have perished
From this kind of poisonous corruption.
Needless to say, it will happen again.
It seems that it already is.
Unless this poem is too obtuse, We all
must endeavor to change our history
to come. Stand up and speak out,
march in the streets, if we must,
defiantly stand our ground!
This is our nations new Ides of March.
It seems we now have our own Julius
Caesar, may he go the way of the other.
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 10:14 PM UTC
Hmm?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCLXXVIII)
Not Main's antholgy, nor as wont fr'intents
MY sanctum, that dear "corner" I'd avail
Me of for reading ancient poets' tale
Of what was then and beckons too for sense
To aught who'd listen, no. Yet ah, from hence
Lo, Francis Palgrave"s auld collection--hale
With their sweet flavour--whom Main refrenced--bail
For blackest coffee til mine eyes saw...whence?
Haha. Well, children, like the Scriptures fer
All that declare: yes, nothing, nothing's new.
O! which sweet courtier inked the tale men cure
This "modern" day with, moaning folly to
The tune of "girls are fickle!" which in poor
Scuse Jane, um, Austen cried false? Say we knew.
30Jan19c
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 12:48 AM UTC
Fable XIII, Livre V.
Entre nos frères les meuniers
Et nos frères les charbonniers
J'ai vu régner longtemps une haine assez forte.
À quel propos ? C'était... que le diable m'emporte,
Si plus qu'eux-mêmes je l'ai su !
Eh ! n'est-ce pas souvent pour un malentendu
Qu'un premier combat se donne ?
Le tort en est à tous, comme il n'est à personne,
Au second, où l'on rend ce que l'on a reçu,
Où l'on se bat du moins parce qu'on s'est battu.
Mais revenons au fait : ainsi qu'on peut le croire,
Chaque héros dans sa valeur,
Se signalant pour sa couleur,
Criait haro sur l'autre, et tombait, dit l'histoire,
Charbonnier sur la blanche et meunier sur la noire.
Par la seule nature armés,
Les voyez-vous en cent manières
Les bras tendus, les poings fermés,
Venger l'honneur de leurs bannières ?
Que de coups donnés et rendus !
Que de flots de sang répandus
Par tous ces nez cassés des mains de la victoire !
Chantre de Jeanne et de Bourbon,
C'est ta voix qui devrait transmettre la mémoire
De tous ces preux couverts de gloire et de charbon,
Couverts de farine et de gloire !
Certain jour cependant que ces poudreux guerriers
Se reposaient sur leurs lauriers,
Un philosophe, un philanthrope,
Un marguillier, mortel ennemi des combats,
Tenta de mettre un terme à ces trop longs débats.
D'un manteau neutre il s'enveloppe ;
Et le voilà, du matin jusqu'au soir,
De l'un à l'autre camp sans cesse en promenade ;
Qui va, vient et revient, en courtier d'ambassade,
Du noir au blanc, du blanc au noir.
Or, à son drap qui n'est noir, ni blanc, mais pistache,
Tantôt le blanc, tantôt le noir laisse une tache.
Comme on en murmurait d'un et d'autre côté :
« Charbonniers et meuniers, dit-il, parlons sans feinte :
Voit-on les deux partis, sans prendre un peu la teinte
Des gens à qui l'on s'est frotté ? »
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