Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, in coronation robes by Jean-Baptiste Gautier Dagoty, 1775. 'The Jacobins and Bolshevists / are background noise compared to where / Marie Antoinette once pinned her hair...'
by Zireaux (an excerpt from Res Publica, Book Two)
He said: ‘I loved a girl. A mark
upon her cheek, a small brown mole,
was beauty’s little match that sparked
love’s tinder in my soul. The whole
of God’s creation in that dot!
I loved her – and yet her marriage knot
was with a banker tied instead.
And one year on, my love was dead.
And what a banker he was! He shared,
foul villain, his every asset: The stocks
he held in Syphilis. The pocks
and cankers. O how her husband cared
for her! What gifts he gave in welts
and bruises! “A man who kept his belt
quite loose” – as Turkmen like to say
of generous men (and servant-beaters).
He gave her free mascara. Each day,
in drunk benevolence, he’d treat her
to his fists. Or for romance he
might uncork some sweet shampanski
and crack it on my darling’s skull.
I watched her eyes grow dim, grow dull,
grow weak and finally wane of life.
The doctors fed her mercury,
a poison meant to work, you see,
like amputation – to sever a wife
so he, reptilian spouse, could grow
another (his fifth). But ah! How slow
she died! How horrid my darling’s death!
What words and promises I gave her;
for even as she took her dying breath
I swore to God that I would save her!
I swore that from that venal lender
I — with love my legal tender –
would purchase back her freedom. I swore!
But he was rich and I was poor.
I saw her fair and fragile form
spread lifeless on her bed and twice
I tried – and failed, alas – to slice
her husband’s throat amid my storm
of vengeance. Mad with grief I spent
a year unleashing my lament
across the land, in dirges sung
to many ears, of course, which wrung,
no doubt, as many eyes of tears.
But numbers aren’t what history hears.’
This final line was said with weary
aplomb; and then he searched my gaze
for some appraisal, or better, just praise
of such a wise and well-phrased theory.
My face gave nothing then. But I’m
inclined now to agree. At times,
yes, volume may count, if only because
it makes us listen; but soloists
are most remembered, not orchestras.
The Jacobins and Bolshevists
are background noise compared to where
Marie Antoinette once pinned her hair
and all the other reasons why
the tourists today still storm Versailles.
But let’s make sure our orator
obeys the talker’s duty – to finish.
Lost threads of thought do not diminish
the patchwork banter of a bore.
They’ll find more thread, they always do,
and plot an extra sleeve for you.
__________
Zireaux’s comments on these stanzas
Some episodes later, the bereaved man of our poem — the “Kiwi-slash-Turkmenistani” from Book One — encounters the old banker again, in a cave, in the mountains, with “ropes tied tight around his [the banker's] arms and legs.”
Whether he slices the old man’s throat (third time lucky?) is something I’m afraid I can’t reveal right now, lest it spoil the story.
There’s been some very fine poetry coming from the Tuesday Poets of late. I urge you to pay them a visit.
