Ricardian poetry
Ricardian poetry
2005-03-12 05:52:36
Found on Fictionpress.com, by penname "calcula":
It is easy,
To watch a villain die.
A murderer
A usurper
A cruel man and an evil.
We move on, to happier times,
and leave him in hell.
And so we call him evil,
Richard Plantagenet.
If we said that his wife had died,
and his only son,
that he had given trial by jury to the people,
and protected their fishing rights,
that he was betrayed by his allies;
it would be too terrible to think this.
Too tragic to imagine:
Alone on the field,
fighting for England,
for an ideal of peace and prosperity,
deserted by friends,
and dying, and having no memorial,
and being only thirty-two.
This is too sad a picture.
It is easier to call him evil,
and be done.
Calcula also wrote the following piece, Kyrie Eleison:
August 22, 1485
The sun was just setting, and the French soldiers were finally leaving the church, lured by the promise of better entertainment in the brothels and taverns of the city. The man--no one who had seen the battle that morning would have ventured to call one who had fought in it anything but a man, even if he was scarcely full grown and still called by the boyýs name of Ned--waited patiently until he was alone in the nave, for he knew that his particular devotion was not one that would be taken kindly to by the foreign mercenaries, or by the Welshman who commanded them. But much stronger than that slender rational thought, one of the few that had stayed with him through the horror of the day, was the idea that it was shameful for a man and a knight, who dealt always in death, to cry over it like a maiden, and more shameful still, if he cried in front of other men. He was a knight, had been given the accolade only the night before. In spite of the morningýs hard fighting, he thought he
could still feel the bruise from the buffet his lord had given him, his lord and king, whoýs slight frame and stature belied his strength, who would surely have carried the day, had he not been basely betrayed. Betrayed! And as surely as Our Lord had been. But the comfort that William Stanley would forever burn in the deepest pits of hell was small.
As he approached the altar rail and knelt, he could hear Vespers being chanted in the cloister beyond him. It was then that he truly felt the import of the dayýs events. That Stanley had turned coat at the crucial moment, that King Richard had been betrayed and cut down. King Richard was dead. Dead! He wanted to scream it out, and at the same time tried to muffle the sound. It was a strangled shout that he emitted at last, one that did not satisfy his grief. But a knight did not cry. He bore death patiently, whether his own or his friendýs, or his kingýs. A knight did not cry. His tears came anyway, and he wept.
There was so much to mourn. His livelihood was gone, for he knew he could never reconcile himself with his lordýs murderer. He could never swear allegiance to the Tudor, not after serving a master whose creed had been loyalty. He mourned for England as well. King Richard had marched his army around farms and fields with a care to preserving them. And all had heard of the path of rape and plunder that Harry of Richmondýs villains had wrought from the moment he had landed. But mostly, he wept for Richard, for whom he would gladly have died, but whom he had instead seen treacherously murdered. Richard, his king, young and noble, who had kept pure the ideals of honor and chivalry throughout years of civil war, who had been a good lord to his people in the North, and then to all of England. Ned struggled to master himself. He leaned his face against the cool stone of the communion rail before him, and listened to the chanting of the monks. They were not singing the standard evening
prayers, he realized, but the office of the dead. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy It seemed very far away. He was tired, so tired. When he slept, slumped against the altar, he dreamt dreams mixed with memories.
He watched from a distance as Duke Richard rode through the open moors of his North Country on his white horse. It was the brilliant spring; the tall grasses were green and the flowers in full bloom, and his heart was filled with pride to be the man of such a noble prince.
He saw the messenger ride hard to his lord and dismount to kneel before him. He ran closer to them, close enough to see the dukeýs face at the news, and to hear the tail-end of it himself, that their good lord Edward, Englandýs king, was dead.
He relived the glory of Richardýs coronation, of his consecration as a holy king. The glitter of the procession, of the gay clothes and company, the happiness in the streets ran again through his mind. And the ceremony: he knelt in the great Cathedral of Westminster, in awe that he had been spoken to, that he had even touched, one who was now so close to God.
And now he knelt in another church, heard another mass--a requiem mass. He saw his king, gaunt and pale, nearly destroyed by care and grief. He had lost his son and his beloved queen, had been betrayed by one he had thought a loyal friend.
It was the morning of the battle. Ned helped to arm his lord. Though he himself had been made a knight the evening before, he served as a squire for this most important morning. With horror, he thought suddenly that it might be the last time Richard would be armed, and then tried to destroy that thought. He would prevent such an event, he knew it. He would be ready to die for King Richardýs life and crown. Only one task remained to him: he must bring the Sword of England to his king. Richard stood a little apart from the bustle of the camp around him. The sunlight of the early August morning made a blinding halo out of the thin gold crown encircling his helm. Ned approached cautiously, to kneel and offer the great sword. Richard took it with a thin, even solemn, smile, and a nod of acknowledgment. He had shadows under his eyes.
"God go with you and protect you," he said. Ned was not surprised that the king did not pronounce his name. Richard had lost already two very close to him who had borne it.
"And with Your Grace--with England," Ned replied vehemently. He reached to take his kingýs hand, yet ungloved in mail, to kiss it.
He reached, but he could not touch Richardýs hand. The stern figure of the king was becoming indistinct. "God go with you--Ned," it repeated, and faded. The painted Christ behind the altar, in agonies on His Cross, came into sudden focus. Ned blinked. There was only the dimness of the cathedral, and the dust-motes shifting in the light of a few candles still burning in side chapels. King Richard was gone.
Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.
It is easy,
To watch a villain die.
A murderer
A usurper
A cruel man and an evil.
We move on, to happier times,
and leave him in hell.
And so we call him evil,
Richard Plantagenet.
If we said that his wife had died,
and his only son,
that he had given trial by jury to the people,
and protected their fishing rights,
that he was betrayed by his allies;
it would be too terrible to think this.
Too tragic to imagine:
Alone on the field,
fighting for England,
for an ideal of peace and prosperity,
deserted by friends,
and dying, and having no memorial,
and being only thirty-two.
This is too sad a picture.
It is easier to call him evil,
and be done.
Calcula also wrote the following piece, Kyrie Eleison:
August 22, 1485
The sun was just setting, and the French soldiers were finally leaving the church, lured by the promise of better entertainment in the brothels and taverns of the city. The man--no one who had seen the battle that morning would have ventured to call one who had fought in it anything but a man, even if he was scarcely full grown and still called by the boyýs name of Ned--waited patiently until he was alone in the nave, for he knew that his particular devotion was not one that would be taken kindly to by the foreign mercenaries, or by the Welshman who commanded them. But much stronger than that slender rational thought, one of the few that had stayed with him through the horror of the day, was the idea that it was shameful for a man and a knight, who dealt always in death, to cry over it like a maiden, and more shameful still, if he cried in front of other men. He was a knight, had been given the accolade only the night before. In spite of the morningýs hard fighting, he thought he
could still feel the bruise from the buffet his lord had given him, his lord and king, whoýs slight frame and stature belied his strength, who would surely have carried the day, had he not been basely betrayed. Betrayed! And as surely as Our Lord had been. But the comfort that William Stanley would forever burn in the deepest pits of hell was small.
As he approached the altar rail and knelt, he could hear Vespers being chanted in the cloister beyond him. It was then that he truly felt the import of the dayýs events. That Stanley had turned coat at the crucial moment, that King Richard had been betrayed and cut down. King Richard was dead. Dead! He wanted to scream it out, and at the same time tried to muffle the sound. It was a strangled shout that he emitted at last, one that did not satisfy his grief. But a knight did not cry. He bore death patiently, whether his own or his friendýs, or his kingýs. A knight did not cry. His tears came anyway, and he wept.
There was so much to mourn. His livelihood was gone, for he knew he could never reconcile himself with his lordýs murderer. He could never swear allegiance to the Tudor, not after serving a master whose creed had been loyalty. He mourned for England as well. King Richard had marched his army around farms and fields with a care to preserving them. And all had heard of the path of rape and plunder that Harry of Richmondýs villains had wrought from the moment he had landed. But mostly, he wept for Richard, for whom he would gladly have died, but whom he had instead seen treacherously murdered. Richard, his king, young and noble, who had kept pure the ideals of honor and chivalry throughout years of civil war, who had been a good lord to his people in the North, and then to all of England. Ned struggled to master himself. He leaned his face against the cool stone of the communion rail before him, and listened to the chanting of the monks. They were not singing the standard evening
prayers, he realized, but the office of the dead. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy It seemed very far away. He was tired, so tired. When he slept, slumped against the altar, he dreamt dreams mixed with memories.
He watched from a distance as Duke Richard rode through the open moors of his North Country on his white horse. It was the brilliant spring; the tall grasses were green and the flowers in full bloom, and his heart was filled with pride to be the man of such a noble prince.
He saw the messenger ride hard to his lord and dismount to kneel before him. He ran closer to them, close enough to see the dukeýs face at the news, and to hear the tail-end of it himself, that their good lord Edward, Englandýs king, was dead.
He relived the glory of Richardýs coronation, of his consecration as a holy king. The glitter of the procession, of the gay clothes and company, the happiness in the streets ran again through his mind. And the ceremony: he knelt in the great Cathedral of Westminster, in awe that he had been spoken to, that he had even touched, one who was now so close to God.
And now he knelt in another church, heard another mass--a requiem mass. He saw his king, gaunt and pale, nearly destroyed by care and grief. He had lost his son and his beloved queen, had been betrayed by one he had thought a loyal friend.
It was the morning of the battle. Ned helped to arm his lord. Though he himself had been made a knight the evening before, he served as a squire for this most important morning. With horror, he thought suddenly that it might be the last time Richard would be armed, and then tried to destroy that thought. He would prevent such an event, he knew it. He would be ready to die for King Richardýs life and crown. Only one task remained to him: he must bring the Sword of England to his king. Richard stood a little apart from the bustle of the camp around him. The sunlight of the early August morning made a blinding halo out of the thin gold crown encircling his helm. Ned approached cautiously, to kneel and offer the great sword. Richard took it with a thin, even solemn, smile, and a nod of acknowledgment. He had shadows under his eyes.
"God go with you and protect you," he said. Ned was not surprised that the king did not pronounce his name. Richard had lost already two very close to him who had borne it.
"And with Your Grace--with England," Ned replied vehemently. He reached to take his kingýs hand, yet ungloved in mail, to kiss it.
He reached, but he could not touch Richardýs hand. The stern figure of the king was becoming indistinct. "God go with you--Ned," it repeated, and faded. The painted Christ behind the altar, in agonies on His Cross, came into sudden focus. Ned blinked. There was only the dimness of the cathedral, and the dust-motes shifting in the light of a few candles still burning in side chapels. King Richard was gone.
Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.
Re: Ricardian poetry
2005-03-12 22:58:33
Well, I am no literary critic but I think that that little poem
encapsulates it neatly:- the tragedy of Richard's short life. It is
almost easier to think of him of some sort of gangster king who got
his comeuppance rather than a man who lost much and was betrayed
both in life and after. Nuff said
Angela
--- In , Megan Lerseth
<megan_phntmgrl@s...> wrote:
> Found on Fictionpress.com, by penname "calcula":
>
> It is easy,
> To watch a villain die.
> A murderer
> A usurper
> A cruel man and an evil.
> We move on, to happier times,
> and leave him in hell.
>
> And so we call him evil,
> Richard Plantagenet.
>
> If we said that his wife had died,
> and his only son,
> that he had given trial by jury to the people,
> and protected their fishing rights,
> that he was betrayed by his allies;
> it would be too terrible to think this.
>
> Too tragic to imagine:
> Alone on the field,
> fighting for England,
> for an ideal of peace and prosperity,
> deserted by friends,
> and dying, and having no memorial,
> and being only thirty-two.
> This is too sad a picture.
>
> It is easier to call him evil,
> and be done.
>
> Calcula also wrote the following piece, Kyrie Eleison:
>
> August 22, 1485
> The sun was just setting, and the French soldiers were finally
leaving the church, lured by the promise of better entertainment in
the brothels and taverns of the city. The man--no one who had seen
the battle that morning would have ventured to call one who had
fought in it anything but a man, even if he was scarcely full grown
and still called by the boy's name of Ned--waited patiently until he
was alone in the nave, for he knew that his particular devotion was
not one that would be taken kindly to by the foreign mercenaries, or
by the Welshman who commanded them. But much stronger than that
slender rational thought, one of the few that had stayed with him
through the horror of the day, was the idea that it was shameful for
a man and a knight, who dealt always in death, to cry over it like a
maiden, and more shameful still, if he cried in front of other men.
He was a knight, had been given the accolade only the night before.
In spite of the morning's hard fighting, he thought he
> could still feel the bruise from the buffet his lord had given
him, his lord and king, who's slight frame and stature belied his
strength, who would surely have carried the day, had he not been
basely betrayed. Betrayed! And as surely as Our Lord had been. But
the comfort that William Stanley would forever burn in the deepest
pits of hell was small.
>
> As he approached the altar rail and knelt, he could hear Vespers
being chanted in the cloister beyond him. It was then that he truly
felt the import of the day's events. That Stanley had turned coat at
the crucial moment, that King Richard had been betrayed and cut
down. King Richard was dead. Dead! He wanted to scream it out, and
at the same time tried to muffle the sound. It was a strangled shout
that he emitted at last, one that did not satisfy his grief. But a
knight did not cry. He bore death patiently, whether his own or his
friend's, or his king's. A knight did not cry. His tears came
anyway, and he wept.
>
> There was so much to mourn. His livelihood was gone, for he knew
he could never reconcile himself with his lord's murderer. He could
never swear allegiance to the Tudor, not after serving a master
whose creed had been loyalty. He mourned for England as well. King
Richard had marched his army around farms and fields with a care to
preserving them. And all had heard of the path of rape and plunder
that Harry of Richmond's villains had wrought from the moment he had
landed. But mostly, he wept for Richard, for whom he would gladly
have died, but whom he had instead seen treacherously murdered.
Richard, his king, young and noble, who had kept pure the ideals of
honor and chivalry throughout years of civil war, who had been a
good lord to his people in the North, and then to all of England.
Ned struggled to master himself. He leaned his face against the cool
stone of the communion rail before him, and listened to the chanting
of the monks. They were not singing the standard evening
> prayers, he realized, but the office of the dead. Kyrie eleison,
Christe eleison. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy It seemed very
far away. He was tired, so tired. When he slept, slumped against the
altar, he dreamt dreams mixed with memories.
>
> He watched from a distance as Duke Richard rode through the open
moors of his North Country on his white horse. It was the brilliant
spring; the tall grasses were green and the flowers in full bloom,
and his heart was filled with pride to be the man of such a noble
prince.
>
> He saw the messenger ride hard to his lord and dismount to kneel
before him. He ran closer to them, close enough to see the duke's
face at the news, and to hear the tail-end of it himself, that their
good lord Edward, England's king, was dead.
>
>
>
> He relived the glory of Richard's coronation, of his consecration
as a holy king. The glitter of the procession, of the gay clothes
and company, the happiness in the streets ran again through his
mind. And the ceremony: he knelt in the great Cathedral of
Westminster, in awe that he had been spoken to, that he had even
touched, one who was now so close to God.
>
>
>
> And now he knelt in another church, heard another mass--a requiem
mass. He saw his king, gaunt and pale, nearly destroyed by care and
grief. He had lost his son and his beloved queen, had been betrayed
by one he had thought a loyal friend.
>
> It was the morning of the battle. Ned helped to arm his lord.
Though he himself had been made a knight the evening before, he
served as a squire for this most important morning. With horror, he
thought suddenly that it might be the last time Richard would be
armed, and then tried to destroy that thought. He would prevent such
an event, he knew it. He would be ready to die for King Richard's
life and crown. Only one task remained to him: he must bring the
Sword of England to his king. Richard stood a little apart from the
bustle of the camp around him. The sunlight of the early August
morning made a blinding halo out of the thin gold crown encircling
his helm. Ned approached cautiously, to kneel and offer the great
sword. Richard took it with a thin, even solemn, smile, and a nod of
acknowledgment. He had shadows under his eyes.
>
> "God go with you and protect you," he said. Ned was not surprised
that the king did not pronounce his name. Richard had lost already
two very close to him who had borne it.
>
> "And with Your Grace--with England," Ned replied vehemently. He
reached to take his king's hand, yet ungloved in mail, to kiss it.
>
>
>
> He reached, but he could not touch Richard's hand. The stern
figure of the king was becoming indistinct. "God go with you--Ned,"
it repeated, and faded. The painted Christ behind the altar, in
agonies on His Cross, came into sudden focus. Ned blinked. There was
only the dimness of the cathedral, and the dust-motes shifting in
the light of a few candles still burning in side chapels. King
Richard was gone.
>
> Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.
>
>
>
>
>
encapsulates it neatly:- the tragedy of Richard's short life. It is
almost easier to think of him of some sort of gangster king who got
his comeuppance rather than a man who lost much and was betrayed
both in life and after. Nuff said
Angela
--- In , Megan Lerseth
<megan_phntmgrl@s...> wrote:
> Found on Fictionpress.com, by penname "calcula":
>
> It is easy,
> To watch a villain die.
> A murderer
> A usurper
> A cruel man and an evil.
> We move on, to happier times,
> and leave him in hell.
>
> And so we call him evil,
> Richard Plantagenet.
>
> If we said that his wife had died,
> and his only son,
> that he had given trial by jury to the people,
> and protected their fishing rights,
> that he was betrayed by his allies;
> it would be too terrible to think this.
>
> Too tragic to imagine:
> Alone on the field,
> fighting for England,
> for an ideal of peace and prosperity,
> deserted by friends,
> and dying, and having no memorial,
> and being only thirty-two.
> This is too sad a picture.
>
> It is easier to call him evil,
> and be done.
>
> Calcula also wrote the following piece, Kyrie Eleison:
>
> August 22, 1485
> The sun was just setting, and the French soldiers were finally
leaving the church, lured by the promise of better entertainment in
the brothels and taverns of the city. The man--no one who had seen
the battle that morning would have ventured to call one who had
fought in it anything but a man, even if he was scarcely full grown
and still called by the boy's name of Ned--waited patiently until he
was alone in the nave, for he knew that his particular devotion was
not one that would be taken kindly to by the foreign mercenaries, or
by the Welshman who commanded them. But much stronger than that
slender rational thought, one of the few that had stayed with him
through the horror of the day, was the idea that it was shameful for
a man and a knight, who dealt always in death, to cry over it like a
maiden, and more shameful still, if he cried in front of other men.
He was a knight, had been given the accolade only the night before.
In spite of the morning's hard fighting, he thought he
> could still feel the bruise from the buffet his lord had given
him, his lord and king, who's slight frame and stature belied his
strength, who would surely have carried the day, had he not been
basely betrayed. Betrayed! And as surely as Our Lord had been. But
the comfort that William Stanley would forever burn in the deepest
pits of hell was small.
>
> As he approached the altar rail and knelt, he could hear Vespers
being chanted in the cloister beyond him. It was then that he truly
felt the import of the day's events. That Stanley had turned coat at
the crucial moment, that King Richard had been betrayed and cut
down. King Richard was dead. Dead! He wanted to scream it out, and
at the same time tried to muffle the sound. It was a strangled shout
that he emitted at last, one that did not satisfy his grief. But a
knight did not cry. He bore death patiently, whether his own or his
friend's, or his king's. A knight did not cry. His tears came
anyway, and he wept.
>
> There was so much to mourn. His livelihood was gone, for he knew
he could never reconcile himself with his lord's murderer. He could
never swear allegiance to the Tudor, not after serving a master
whose creed had been loyalty. He mourned for England as well. King
Richard had marched his army around farms and fields with a care to
preserving them. And all had heard of the path of rape and plunder
that Harry of Richmond's villains had wrought from the moment he had
landed. But mostly, he wept for Richard, for whom he would gladly
have died, but whom he had instead seen treacherously murdered.
Richard, his king, young and noble, who had kept pure the ideals of
honor and chivalry throughout years of civil war, who had been a
good lord to his people in the North, and then to all of England.
Ned struggled to master himself. He leaned his face against the cool
stone of the communion rail before him, and listened to the chanting
of the monks. They were not singing the standard evening
> prayers, he realized, but the office of the dead. Kyrie eleison,
Christe eleison. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy It seemed very
far away. He was tired, so tired. When he slept, slumped against the
altar, he dreamt dreams mixed with memories.
>
> He watched from a distance as Duke Richard rode through the open
moors of his North Country on his white horse. It was the brilliant
spring; the tall grasses were green and the flowers in full bloom,
and his heart was filled with pride to be the man of such a noble
prince.
>
> He saw the messenger ride hard to his lord and dismount to kneel
before him. He ran closer to them, close enough to see the duke's
face at the news, and to hear the tail-end of it himself, that their
good lord Edward, England's king, was dead.
>
>
>
> He relived the glory of Richard's coronation, of his consecration
as a holy king. The glitter of the procession, of the gay clothes
and company, the happiness in the streets ran again through his
mind. And the ceremony: he knelt in the great Cathedral of
Westminster, in awe that he had been spoken to, that he had even
touched, one who was now so close to God.
>
>
>
> And now he knelt in another church, heard another mass--a requiem
mass. He saw his king, gaunt and pale, nearly destroyed by care and
grief. He had lost his son and his beloved queen, had been betrayed
by one he had thought a loyal friend.
>
> It was the morning of the battle. Ned helped to arm his lord.
Though he himself had been made a knight the evening before, he
served as a squire for this most important morning. With horror, he
thought suddenly that it might be the last time Richard would be
armed, and then tried to destroy that thought. He would prevent such
an event, he knew it. He would be ready to die for King Richard's
life and crown. Only one task remained to him: he must bring the
Sword of England to his king. Richard stood a little apart from the
bustle of the camp around him. The sunlight of the early August
morning made a blinding halo out of the thin gold crown encircling
his helm. Ned approached cautiously, to kneel and offer the great
sword. Richard took it with a thin, even solemn, smile, and a nod of
acknowledgment. He had shadows under his eyes.
>
> "God go with you and protect you," he said. Ned was not surprised
that the king did not pronounce his name. Richard had lost already
two very close to him who had borne it.
>
> "And with Your Grace--with England," Ned replied vehemently. He
reached to take his king's hand, yet ungloved in mail, to kiss it.
>
>
>
> He reached, but he could not touch Richard's hand. The stern
figure of the king was becoming indistinct. "God go with you--Ned,"
it repeated, and faded. The painted Christ behind the altar, in
agonies on His Cross, came into sudden focus. Ned blinked. There was
only the dimness of the cathedral, and the dust-motes shifting in
the light of a few candles still burning in side chapels. King
Richard was gone.
>
> Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.
>
>
>
>
>
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