The Poem of Ellery Caine

‘My Lord, My lord, won’t you let me be?’

She screamed from her ivory tower,

Sir Roland stood by her castle gate,

And all that he did was glower.

‘I laid a bet of a thousand pounds

That I’d have you wed by the Spring,

I’ll not move hence from your castle gate

Until you accept my ring!’

 

I pursed my lips and I laid aside

That poem by Ellery Caine,

The poet who’d recently come to abide

At the cottage in Primrose Lane,

We’d struck up quite an acquaintanceship

Though I wouldn’t call him a friend,

He’d sought me out to survey his work,

And this was the last he’d penned.

 

He had a penchant for gothic themes,

For castles, dungeons and trolls,

Of ladies trapped in their helplessness,

Imprisoned in castle walls,

He’d said, ‘My narratives come in dreams,

And I write as far as they go,

I often wake as the lady screams,

Then wait for the end to show.’

 

His Lady Jane he had tried to save

From abuse by arrogant knights,

She’d been accosted by every knave,

But fought to preserve her rights,

Her father was a recusant knight

Who had suffered a violent fate,

But she inherited what he’d left

And her grandfather’s estate.

 

‘I fear she’ll come to a violent end,’

He’d said, one day to me,

‘For ladies back in those distant days

Had little choice to be free.’

I said, ‘But you are in charge of this,

You’re the Master of her Fate,

A simple twirl of your pen will take

That knight from her castle gate.’

 

His mouth had twitched as he made reply,

And his brow was furrowed and dark,

‘I told you that it’s not up to me!’

We walked alone in the park.

‘My pen is guided by dreams at night,

And they do whatever they will,

If she’ll not be wed by the morning light,

I’m sure that her blood will spill.’

 

I looked again at that final verse

And my heart had bled for Jane,

I felt she’d suffered enough, and so

I visited Primrose Lane,

The night was dark and the shades were drawn

But a candle sputtered its light,

And there the poet was at his desk

With a quill, and about to write.

 

I hardly remember what I did

When I splattered his brains on the page,

I only saw what he’d written there

And my anger had turned to rage;

‘Sir Roland mounted her private stair…’

Was the final line that he wrote,

I thought I’d saved her an awful fate

But Jane had screamed, and I quote…

 

‘You’ve left me here, suspended in time

With his brains and blood on my dress,

He may have written the worst for me,

But all you’ve left is a mess.

My story’s over, it’s ended now,

There’s no-one to write me free,’

Her face stared back from a mirror then,

A face that should have been me!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Onyia-Ali, Kingsley Chu..]

O! my God, the poem is so captivating to the extend that it holds the interest of the read to the end, I appreciate it as a narrative indeed. The imagery is well captured, the driveing force of human will to perform an action. The poem is good. well done.

[A Soap Mess Stories]

I always love your choice of characters and your wonderful storytelling.

[TL Boehm]

Wow! I'm always hearing that if you ire a writer you could be off'ed in a piece of work, but if you are ired and kill a writer what happens to his or her characters. Intriguing!

[Ravyne Hawke]

Wonderful tale with just enough darkness to make it compelling. I love the idea of the poet's muse only coming in his dreams; I've suffered from similar plights often. I loved the ending.. the mess left for poor Lady Jane. Wonderful work, David!

[Tate Morgan]

This seems as much about you as the characters in it.It tells of the way you imagine these stories in your dreams.I too make up most of mine that way. What would we do if the creator of these stories was stopped mid stride? Though I must say To be able to imagine these stories takes a sense that they are as real as the lives we lead

[Valentine]

Suspended in time, no wday to get out of that mirror..poor damsel..another terrific write. How you keep coming up with these gems amazes me..YOu must have read an awful lot atone time of the other..Kathie

[quinfinn]

holy damsels in distress, wordman! this is a very clever take on the whole "kept alive in writing" conundrum. although your twist on it is quite different than most and well penned. great piece, David!

[Saumya]

this is really very touching.....!!! one of the biggest aspect that a good poem should have
really well done !!! hats off!!
keeep writing and rocking,
with best wishes,
saumya

[Keith]

That's intense, clever and catchy with an interesting plot. A metaphore for many life situations where outside help left a worse situation, eg; Afghanistan.

By the way, from your work that I have read so far, I think your cumulative alter egos now rate serial killer and I still have a lot to read. Lol.

[Marie]

THis is a fascinating poem. Writing within writing. Ellery Caine sounds like you. But he also sounds like me.