Joan of Arc

I wanted to just play my silly-girl part,
But I'm heavy with visions, old from the start;
I wanted kisses, dresses, a canopy bed--
But I am holy and lonely Joan instead.

I hear voices, which are my poems.
I see saints, which are my better impulses.

I have my horse, whose soft brown nostrils flare,
My sword and my cross and my short-shorn hair;
The sun bakes down, my saddle creaks
And it goes on like this for weeks...and weeks.

I know the night, which is my sister.
I know the want for a woman, which is my sentence.

What can anyone do to me, or do for me?
They've already reduced me to smoke and glory;
But inside my armor, I've re-formed and I sear
And I'll smoulder like this for years...and years.

I love the high grass and the red-winged blackbird.
I long for a French girl and la fin de la guerre.

I only wanted some charm and some looks,
Never my face in old history books;
No statue all pigeon-->-bleeped-<-, stood in the park,
Not this lonely and burning sweet bitch Joan of Arc.

I like the fire imagery throughout and the fire without her and the fire within. Very nice.

Nichole

Quote from: Nichole on July 28, 2008, 04:41:59 PM
I like the fire imagery throughout and the fire without her and the fire within. Very nice.

Nichole

Thank you, Nichole! 

Stealth