6 posts tagged “fairytale retelling”

Donkey Skin - Man's Coat (Work in Progress, based on Donkey Skin Tale in Andrew Lang's Fairy Book, where a father tries to marry his adopted daughter)

Donkey Skin - Man's Coat

(for my husband, Michael)

The mother dies or is absent

Maybe she drinks jug after jug

of cheapest table wine

The daughter hides in her royal chamber

cloistered in silk bed clothes

the curtains drawn

or perhaps she sits in her closet

pretending to be Amelia Earhart

in the darkness, seeing sky

The mother is laid in a grave fresh

or stops bathing

to avoid his loathsome touch

The daughter is fresh in morning

in black hat and dress

or perhaps fresh as morning in cotton

Her father weds her, bad as the Bay of Biscay

With old man ice hands he probes

to find his own boy self, lanky and pale

wedded to his own gray father

once upon the time

when he held innocence like an egg

Thus a chain of souls goes back to Lot

in certain families

a rank disease, tenacious as Virginia Creeper

The daughter, apoplectic

unable to move marmoreal limbs

or to speak

Even her own name

is a Shibboleth she cannot pronounce

gravel on her tongue

She is to blame

for her hair was unbound

for she slept naked at nine

like a white fleshen arrow

She skins a donkey

wraps herself in putrefaction

wearing death and ferocity.

Maybe she shaves her head and dons

her fathers old wool coat

with its moth balls

and is called sir or beast in 7-11

She hides herself

till one comes with courage

reaching fingers through the hide's opening

to translate her snarls and growls

to poetry

and lead her naked to the waters

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

5/2008

The Blue Light

 (based on a Grimms fairytale where an old wounded soldier is booted out of the kings personal

 guard and finds the house of a witch, where he makes away with a blue light.  He eventually

 becomes king and marries the daughter of the king.)

Sometimes a blue light leads you home

through the darkest owl-screeching woods

to the castle you've dreamed of

to the princess whose arms

hang paler than snow

The blue light is a bit of a star

with which you must be careful

lest it explode in interstellar gas

and take all life

the mouse in the wheat

and the king at his table

to become blue light

drifting in the ocean of space

that also is a dream from your childhood

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

5/12/2008

The Merits of  the Frog Man

would you wed the frog

to have your own gold ball back

and more besides?

for wells are very deep

and other gold must lie

at the murky bottom

he must be very rich this frog

and determined

to have you be his

you are told of the story

of how an old waddler

blossomed into a youth

with arms like dinner rolls

strung together

and breath like plum wine

not this sour weight

beside you in the night

slathering you with kisses

and slime

you keep waiting for

the promised transformation

which does not come

his cold amphibious fingers

find you in the bed

and his sticky tongue

leaps from his lips

to taste you

as well as to devour

the fly buzzing overhead

no more bug problems

and plenty of riches

still you must learn to appreciate

this creature

more female than you

after years in a well

which is a cold womb

you must love that he asks

so little of you

and knows his place

below you even as he fingers

your skin

frog slime is good for the complexion

and he looks at you

with absolute devotion 

in his watery algae-colored eyes

he croaks you songs

for the merest smile

that if understood

would put the bards

to shame

he can survive on such

mere delicacies

as your laughter

and your gloved hand

he's learned not to expect

love and passion

not at his froggy age

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

5/2008

the old woman cursed you

each night the moon

                                           in miniature chokes you

as it is born from your lips

                                           your hand, half asleep

slides coin under pillow

                                           it is your usurper right

inside all flutters

                                           in dismay

in bone

                                           a singing comes out your throat

when you least expect it

                                           and you wrap yourself in your cloak

of a rag-a-tag magic

                                           wishing to be elsewhere

but you                                

                                           cannot escape

the heart you thieved

                                           held fast as it is

leech-like                           

                                            upon your own

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

4/2008

the dead suitors won't let go

twelve tossing girls

           dream of descent

                       worry their feet in beds

                                 unable to sleep or rise

all night's a party

                        whirl of lights

                                    twirl of satins

                                                rustle of petticoats

all day is dull

            they hang, limp

                        pliable pose-able lovelies

                                    sad faces over flowering collars

                                                pinched in like puppies

they grow old these maids

each one mourns a dead love

who

            nightly

                        drags

                                    her

                                                down

to danse macabre

to eat his pomegranate

to lie in his stony berth

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

4/2008

apples, two fairytale femme fatales

do you believe my story ended?

coffined in glass

poisoned fruit lodged in throat

sorrow given me by second mother

giant ruby stopping words

o she was beautiful

magnificent

tall as a tree

with eyes of sky

and lips of summer cherries

o how she dandled me

fondled me her fond one

lapping the good milk of my skin

how she loved me

my turpentine sweets

often I was rescued from her

by good men

with rough hands and big hearts

who only craved a kiss

an absolution from my lips

sometimes I am not saved

there is no prince

and I cannot shout

as dirt rains down

upon the lid

in another life I live

to become her

grow into her jaundiced

familiarity

fingers clasp a cigarette

curled apple peel nails

sipping absinthe

my slow green death

and another girl paler than snow

comes along

with eyes like morning

light of her soul uncloaking my nakedness

and I open the decadence of my heart

to fold her in

with love and hate

the twisted roots of the same tree

I pass on the apple

to her whom I love

I try to suck out some of the poison

for I cannot bear it

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

2/2008