Fairy tale poetry ....

[d_aulnoy]

So, tomorrow, I'm going to be discussing fairy tales and poetry in my grad class on retellings.  I've asked my students to choose a favorite to bring to class with them, but it's got me wondering ... what are your favorite fairy tale poems?

P.S. - Mine is "Mrs. Beast," by Carol Ann Duffy.  In case you were wondering.

 

“Mrs. Beast” – Carol Ann Duffy

 

These myths going round, these legends, fairytales,

I’ll put them straight; so when you stare

into my face – Helen’s face, Cleopatra’s,

Queen of Sheba’s, Juliet’s – then, deeper,

gaze into my eyes – Nefertiti’s, Mona Lisa’s,

Garbo’s eyes – think again.  The Little Mermaid slit

her shining, silver tail in two, rubbed salt

into that stinking wound, got up and walked,

in agony, in fishnet tights, stood up and smiled, waltzed,

all for a Prince, a pretty boy, a charming one

who’d dump her in the end, chuck her, throw her overboard.

I could have told her – look, love, I should know,

they’re bastards when they’re Princes.

What you want to do is find yourself a Beast.  The sex

 

is better.  Myself, I came to the House of the Beast

no longer a girl, knowing my own mind,

my own gold stashed in the Bank,

my own black horse at the gates

ready to carry me off at one wrong word,

one false move, one dirty look.

But the Beast fell to his knees at the door

to kiss my glove with his mongrel lips – good –

showed by the tears in his bloodshot eyes

that he knew he was blessed – better –

didn’t try to conceal his erection,

size of a mule’s – best.  And the Beast

watched me open, decant, and quaff

a bottle of Chateau Margaux ‘54

the year of my birth, before he lifted a paw.

 

I’ll tell you more. Stripped to his muslin shirt

and his corduroys, he steamed in his pelt,

ugly as sin.  He had the grunts, the groans, the yelps,

the breath of a goat.  I had the language, girls.

The lady says Do this.  Harder.  The lady says

Do that.  Faster.  The lady says That’s not where I meant.

At last it all made sense.  The pig in my bed

was invited.  And if his snout and trotters fouled

my damask sheets, why, then he’d wash them.  Twice.

Meantime, here was his horrid leather tongue

to scour in between my toes.  Here

were his hooked and yellowy claws to pick my nose,

if I wanted that.  Or to scratch my back

till it bled.  Here was his bullock’s

head to sing off-key all night where I couldn’t hear.

Here was a bit of him like a horse, a ram,

an ape, a wolf, a dog, a donkey, dragon, dinosaur.

 

Need I say more?  On my Poker nights, the Beast

kept out of sight.  We were a hard school, tough as fuck,

all of us beautiful and rich – the Woman

Who Married a Minotaur, Goldilocks, The Bride

Of the Bearded Lesbian, Frau Yellow Dwarf, et Moi.

I watched those wonderful women shuffle and deal –

Five and Seven Cared Stud, Sidewinder, Hold ‘Em, Draw –

I watched them bet and raise and call.  One night,

a head-to-head between Frau Yellow Dwarf and Bearded’s Bride

was over the biggest pot I’d seen in my puff.

The Frau had the Queen of Clubs on the baize

and Bearded the Queen of Spades.  Queen each.

Frau Yellow raised.  Bearded raised.  Goldilocks’ eyes

were glued to the pot as though porridge bubbled there.

The Minotaur’s wife lit a stinking cheroot.  Me,

I noticed the Frau’s hand shook as she placed her chips.

Bearded raised her a final time, then stared,

stared so hard you felt your frock would melt

if she blinked.  Some dykes are like that.  Frau Yellow

swallowed hard, then called.  Sure enough, Bearded flipped

her Aces over; diamonds, heart, the public Ace of Spades.

And that was a lesson learned by all of us –

The drop-dead gorgeous Bride of the Bearded Lesbian didn’t bluff.

 

But behind each player stood a line of ghosts

unable to win.  Eve.  Ashputtel.  Marilyn Monroe.

Rapunzel slashing wildly at her hair.

Bessie Smith unloved and down and out.

Bluebeard’s wives, Henry VIII’s, Snow White

Cursing the day she left the seven dwarfs, Diana,

Princess of Wales.  The sheepish Beast came in

with a tray of schnapps at the end of the game

and we stood for the toast – Fay Wray –

then tossed our fiery drinks to the back of our crimson throats.

Bad girls.  Serious ladies.  Mourning our dead.

 

So I was hard on the Beast, win or lose,

when I got upstairs, those tragic girls in my head,

turfing him out of bed; standing alone

on the balcony, the night so cold I could taste the stars

on the tip of my tongue.  And I made a prayer –

thumbing my pearls, the tears of Mary, one by one,

like a rosary – words for the lost, the captive beautiful,

the wives, those less fortunate than we.

The moon was a hand-mirror breathed on by a Queen.

My breath was a chiffon scarf for an elegant ghost.

I turned to go back inside.  Bring me the Beast for the night.

Bring me the wine-cellar key.  Let the less-loving one be me.

 

Comments

Re: "Bluebeard" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

[belecrivain.livejournal.com]

Yep, Savage Beauty was the source of the poem. Though my favorite poem of hers is Intention to Escape from Him.