Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A MASQUE OF DEAD QUEENS, by STANLEY E. BABB First Line: Queens parade down avenues of memory Last Line: Remains to be said -- ! Subject(s): Arthurian Legend; Courts & Courtiers; Ghosts; Helen Of Troy; Memory; Mythology - Classical; Supernatural; Arthur, King; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens | ||||||||
Queens parade down avenues of memory With slow imperial steps to a soft music Of lutes and trumpets blown by ancient minstrels . . . Queens whose tragic beauty haunted men And made them speak in whispers with their eyes Averted and their fingers tense and itching For the familiar grasp of a great spear With its bright whetted edge hungry for blood. These queens parade, accompanied by peacocks, To a slow and sorrowful music and a singing Of many broken voices like a wind Shuddering over tombstones -- Dust on their lips, Cobwebs on their hair; Where kings fondled them Now foxes lair. Mould on their lips, Mould on their eyes: Down their ruined halls Ring vultures' cries. They did not dream When they were young That someday their dirges Would be sung. For death to them Was a foreign thing They only thought Of pleasuring. And so they pass Slowly and majestically, one by one, As if they were luxuriously young, Haughty, proud and insolent, these queens Whose loveliness once shook the world and made Kings tremble and cringe like beggars seeking alms. They pass pathetically, each one flaunting Her withered beauty, wondering why no man Bends low before her offering his empire For one kiss from her lips and one caress From her thin arms once delicately white As tall proud lilies frosted with sweet dew -- Where is the king Whose reticence Conquered each queen's Sly insolence? Where is the king Of the harpers' hymns Who ran from his queen To the battle's din? Dead, all dead, Rotting in earth; Dust in their teeth Quenching their mirth. The years have spelt their dooms upon the faces Of these slow-walking queens and each one wanders Bewilderedly and with pathetic pride, Her head high and her thin lips parched and cold. . . . Each passes sorrowing and each wonders why No king strides forth to greet her, eager and bold And starved for kisses, and each wonders why No king lays at her feet a plundered empire's Treasury of rich merchandize and jewels, Rare silks and rarer wines and cunning jugglers, And great hounds straining against their leathern leashes. No horns ring loud, No kings reply: No clash of spears, No warriors' cry. No royal minstrels Lift up old tunes, No necromancers Spell out old runes. No servile king With stifled pride Kneels patiently By his queen's side. They pass -- these queens whose beauty was a flame That shrivelled the hearts of sage and stalwart men, And made them quit their council-halls and roam Like restless distracted striplings -- and they wonder Whose cruel fingers snuffed the precious fire Of youth and beauty burning in their blood And glowing out to scarlet in their lips. Remembering great king's kisses and their haste, These queens come loitering down tall halls of song To the slow threne of ancient minstrelsy Of lutes and horns and drums and clarions Twined into words by the poets of the world. They pass -- Queen Helen of whom blind Homer sang, Helen of Troy whose beauty struck a flame To Ilium and for whom so many men Quitted their hearthsides, burnished up their spears And ran forth into battle with a song Upon their lips, eager to fight and die For this young queen whom they did love and pity. Semiramis, whose kisses made kings wonder That mortal woman could be so marvellous! Semiramis, the cruel one, who wrought Tortures upon the bodies of the men Who journeyed from their mountains to her court. The Three White queens of Samarkand, whose laughter Rang low like old temple bells at dusk, And whose youth and beauty and pitiless insolence Were woven into legends by old minstrels. Deidre, whom the ancient Irish bards Say was more beautiful than any woman In all the world, Queen Deidre, who died Upon the body of her lover, Naisi. And Guenevere, whom Launcelot did love, Queen Guenevere, wedded to King Arthur, Who yet did love her husband's bravest knight, And wrought much strife in ancient Camelot. These queens parade down avenues of memory Wrought cunningly by the poets of the world, Remembering the joyance of their youth, The empires that were plundered at their whims, The cities that were burned, and the men who died In battle to the cry of golden trumpets. They pass, remembering the kisses of splendid kings, And they wonder why their slim luxurious beauty Crumbled to dust through the fingers of the years. Queen Helen is dead! Semiramis Is dust, whom once Great kings did kiss. No more than shadows On barren land Are the Three White Queens Of Samarkand. Deidre, too Is nought but dust: She crumbles in earth As all women must. These queens are mould, Their kings are dead Only this rhyme Remains to be said -- ! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BOTHWELL: PART 4 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN IN PHARAOH'S TOMB by HAYDEN CARRUTH FOR THE INVESTITURE by CECIL DAY LEWIS ELEGY ASKING THAT IT BE THE LAST; FOR INGRID ERHARDT, 1951-1971 by NORMAN DUBIE L,ENVOI: IN OUR TIME by ERNEST HEMINGWAY VASHTI by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON LINES ON CARMEN SYLVA by EMMA LAZARUS TO CARMEN SYLVA (QUEEN OF ROUMANIA) by EMMA LAZARUS SHIPS AT SUNSET by STANLEY E. BABB |
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