If we recall. . .
from the blue forest
she swims misty seas
and over blood rocks
(some still screaming)
and you who ask why—
she heard his music
and wanted love, life,
singing waters of time. . .
so, it is
Category Archives: Fairy Tales
When in Doubt, Sing or Shout: Yeats Challenge, Day Thirteen
So, this poem was going to be something else, but it decided to be this. A bit of fun then, and perhaps a hint of Into the Woods for Jane’s A Month with Yeats Poetry Challenge, Day Thirteen. Here’s today’s quotation:
“Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.”
–W. B. Yeats
She ran for hours–or a day
ran off the path to far away
ran from the wrath of the angry queen
ran to the canopy of forest green.
Who knows why the queen was in a choler
but angry she was, and heard to holler
for the girl to be whipped, or maybe dead
and so, the girl had run, had turned and fled
Finally, when she could run no more
she stopped there, where she’d never been before
and wandered then from the wooded lane
why—she never quite could explain.
As though through a door, she walked inside
the air shimmered here, yet she unterrified
of colors brighter, and nothing as it seemed,
a voice said, “empty your heart of its mortal dream.”
Before her stood a fairy prince,
or so she thought from her very quick glimpse,
to him she said, “really sir, if it’s all the same
I rather return from whence I came.”
Then not really certain of how a fairy to fight,
she sang quite loudly with all her might
and with her song he was beguiled
and surprising her, he stood and smiled.
“I’d not keep you here against your will
Why look at you, a child you’re still,
Though because your voice is sweet and pure
I’ll escort you out from our magic door.”
And so, the girl went back out into the wood
gathered her wits, as best she could,
ran far away back to the queen,
whose anger had passed, now nowhere to be seen.
Be careful then if from the woods you wander,
be careful first, and stop to ponder
if you have the wherewithal to sing or scream
if ever asked by fairy prince to give up your mortal dreams.
Swan Prince: Yeats Challenge, Day 4
This is for Jane’s A Month with Yeats Challenge—Day 4
Today’s quotation:
“…till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.” W.B. Yeats
Under the bright moon’s glimmering gleam
she went to meet her love.
The world was hushed, so much unseen,
yet the moon hummed above.
She hurried forth in shadowed light,
the journey was so far
and then she saw a wondrous sight
under the shining stars.
She saw a swan of snowy white
beside a silvered spring.
Somehow, she knew it was all right
to rest there in his wings.
His long wings flashed and loudly beat,
her arms around him tight.
It was her love she did here meet
under the moon’s sweet light
He took her far till morning broke
in rosy pink and red
though he’d been silent, now he spoke
I feared that you were dead.
For it was you, the king desired
so tried to murder me
but before I thus expired
to a swan, she turned me
The goddess of love, for to our plight
wept and took pity so
and now, look here in morning light–
my form returns, a human knight,
and we to a new kingdom go.
The Maiden and the Dragon
From a tower, a maiden weeps
lost in grief, broken-hearted,
by her hand, a dragon sleeps,
before them both, a land uncharted.
She needs to rally and raise her voice,
to be a leader, to trump the hate
with love and light, it is her choice
she hopes that now it’s not too late.
Across a field, she sees them gather
the dragon rises, ready then with fire to slay
“Steady, she says, “let them blather,”
“let’s try to provide an alternative today.”
And so, as the haters hate some more
they sing together the dragon song
of beauty, kindness, not of war,
and the haters know that they are wrong
to judge a dragon by how he appears,
the maiden spins light, it opens a door
(slowly their minds are shifting gears)
as through the door goes hate and fears,
and life resumes, much better than before.
If only. . .
This is for Secret Keeper’s Weekly Prompt.
The prompt words were: Dragon/Provide/Heart/Field/Hand
The Feathers: A Fairy Tale
Once upon a time. . .
a girl left her home as the morning moon shone through the tree branches and hummed a farewell song.
Before she began her daily chores, she wanted to enjoy the peace of the forest, to hear the birds sing, and to see the sun rise and gild the treetops in golden light. These moments of beauty both stirred and quieted her soul. Her village was expanding, but somehow the lives of all who lived there were shrinking. They parroted the words of the king and expected riches to follow, but life had not improved. Her parents had seen no reason for her to continue with her schooling. Other villagers felt the same way, and so the school closed. It stood empty on a hill, a silent beacon.
The girl walked, enjoying the feel of the cool morning air against her face. From above, the dawn star winked, startling her and causing her to stumble and fall on a small pile of feathers. They sparkled, iridescent, blue, silver, and red. She wondered what sort of bird could have dropped the brilliant plumes. As she stroked the silky quills, a door appeared in the forest. It shimmered in the air, and opened just a bit in silent invitation. The girl opened the door wider and walked through.
Inside was a land filled with light and color. Wisdom dripped from the trees, and animals licked it up. A deer came up to her, and shyly nuzzled her hand before sprinting off. Her hand tingled, and she was filled with joy. She learned the feathers came from the bird of knowledge, which was perpetually in motion. Its size and color constantly changed, and it looked different each time she caught a glimpse of it. Over time, the girl learned many things in this world from the trees and the animals, but eventually she wanted to go home.
She found the door and opened it–for it was never locked–and she stepped back into her forest. It looked sadder, smaller. Her parents were happy to see her, but they too, looked sadder and smaller. The villagers were disillusioned. The village had not prospered, and though many still dutifully echoed the king’s words, others were seeking something more. The girl joined these seekers, as they reestablished the school, and she shared an important message:
Ignorance brings fear; knowledge leads to hope.
The girl became a woman, and she remembered the lessons she had absorbed. She made time for books and nature, and when she had children, she read to them every night. She told them the story of the bird of knowledge, and showed them one brilliant blue, silver, and red feather that she had kept. Sometimes the dawn star looked down at them and winked.
William Llewellyn, “Girl with Pigtails,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
This is for a writing challenge that Jane Dougherty and Jeren of itsallaboutnothing concocted. You can read about it here.
Well, I suppose this is too long for flash fiction, and it doesn’t involved insects, and I guess it’s fairy tale, not a folk tale, but other than that it fits the challenge perfectly!
The Beauty Is: NaPoWriMo
Monday Morning Musings:
“Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night –William Shakespeare, Romeo, Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 5
“And the beauty is, when you realize, when you realize, Someone could be looking for a someone like you.” –Adam Guettel, “The Beauty Is” from the musical, The Light in the Piazza Song here.
“At such moments I don’t think about all the misery, but about the beauty that still remains. This is where Mother and I differ greatly. Her advice in the face of melancholy is “Think about all the suffering in the world and be thankful you’re not part of it.” My advice is: “Go outside, to the country, enjoy the sun and all nature has to offer. Go outside and try to recapture the happiness within yourself; think of all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy. –Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl, March 7, 1944
It’s a rainy Earth day,
the grey skies swaddle pink and white blossoms
Spring, verdant, full of life, thirsty, greedily drinks like a baby,
unselfconscious and we the admiring parents watch her,
she is beautiful, even when she’s a dirty mess.
A mother-daughter outing to see Beauty and the Beast,
the theater has reserved seats that we recline in ready for the magic to begin
My daughter is comfortable in the theater.
— the Disney version of the story,
though we’re both impressed by Gaston, more nuanced than his cartoon version,
possibly charming at first in an oafish way
until the true darkness of his soul is revealed,
the mob scenes remind me a bit too much of history and recent events,
mobs inflamed by ignorant narcissists,
it’s happened throughout the ages
it happens now,
but how can I not enjoy a story where the heroine loves books,
a movie that is a shout out to literacy,
and where lovers bond over reading,
Belle reads poetry to the Beast,
he knows a quotation from her favorite play, Romeo and Juliet,
there’s singing and dancing, people and objects,
I had forgotten Audra McDonald was in this movie–
until she sang,
and I didn’t know Dan Stevens had such a fine voice,
(remember that time he was in a little series called Downton Abbey?)
we get a backstory for the Beast (which we both like)
Belle’s backstory is inserted more awkwardly,
Still it is an enjoyable couple of hours of mother and daughter time
And there is more beauty in the day
the beauty is. ..
a bowl of lemons
not exactly life giving them to us
as going to the store and buying six bags of them
and rather than lemonade, we mix them with vodka to make limoncello
aren’t grownup daughters fun!
(And beautiful?)
So, we grate lemon peel,
the kitchen becomes gloriously lemon-scented,
a Chopin polonaise plays softly in the background,
(her husband’s study music),
we talk, of her girlfriends, of work, of this and that,
my husband has been doing yard work
(it’s not raining that hard, he says),
he sits at the table with us,
their dog chews on his toy,
their cat ventures out to see if it’s dinner time
Not pleased by the citrus scent
When we’re finished, we eat takeout Pakistani food,
my husband and my son-in-law learn
the kind and talkative restaurant owner was educated at Oxford
(perhaps he is a book lover, too?)
And what do I do the next day with leftover lemons?
Make lemon cake, of course!
Lemon Cornmeal Cake
It’s beautiful and delicious.
And though there are beasts all around, the beauty is. . .
spending time with people you love,
enjoying good food and wine,
beauty simple and sudden,
striking you, when you look up from your morning coffee
to see the sun dawning over the neighbor’s white dogwood tree
The photo does not capture how beautiful it was
the profound beauty of birth, mixed with blood and pain,
the simple beauty of a smile,
the beauty that is there within the beast,
the beauty is
it surrounds us
the beauty is. . .
in yourself and in everything around you
Today is Day 24, NaPoWriMo. We’re asked to write a poem of ekphasis, a poem inspired by a work of art. We’re challenged to base a poem on marginalia of medieval manuscripts. I suppose you could very loosely say I’ve done this, as they are beautiful and filled with beasts. (Such as this one )
Huffington Post summarizes some previous versions of Beauty and the Beast here.
Today is Yom HaShoah ( This year, it’s Sunset, April 23- Sunset April 24), Holocaust Remembrance Day. I wonder what Anne Frank would be writing about now, and if she would still see beauty in the world.
The Skulls: Microfiction
Ivan Yakovlevich Bilibin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
The princess was awakened in the night by rough hands and gruff voices. Her attendants were killed, and she was thrust into deep hole, a dungeon known only to few, while her captors decided if she was more valuable to them alive or dead. She was a pawn in dynastic feuds.
She lay there in the dark, too stunned and fearful to think or do anything. A rustling in the fetid space around her, finally got her attention. Somehow she knew the sound came from beings, not only rats–though they probably would come looking for a piece of her to chew on soon.
“Don’t be frightened,” she said. “Someone will help us.
My mother used to tell me stories. Shall I tell you one?”
More than a little frightened herself, she began speaking, telling a tale of magic and light, of music and sunshine, of finding a way home from the darkness. Gradually, figures appeared, glowing spirits. They hovered around her, listening to the tale and illuminating the dungeon with their light. She was now able to see that all around here were piles of bones and skulls, the remains of men, women, and children who had been left here to die alone. The princess told these lost souls story after story, until she, too, was near death.
But the princess did not die. One of her attendants had hidden under the bed and survived the slaughter in the bedchamber. This loyal attendant had run for help, the kidnappers were captured, and the princess was rescued–but she did not forget the lost souls in the dungeon.
Eventually she became queen. Shortly after her coronation, she returned to the dungeon. Ordering her guards to remain at the entrance, she walked down the dark steps alone. She sat there in the dirt and told a story of magic and light, of music and sunshine, and of finding a way home from the darkness. She rose then and told the spirits she would build them a new home.
Before long a section was added to her palace. It was called Hope’s Annex, named for the Queen, who had taken the name Hope. The bones from the dungeon were gathered, sorted, and placed there. The building was filled with light from large windows and glass doors, which were opened to the flower gardens in fine weather. It was furnished with comfortable seats, tables, and bookcases crowded with books. People visited, day and night. They read the books, had concerts, and told stories. And the spirits were happy, at last.
This is for Jane Dougherty’s Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge.
The prompt is the illustration above, which is certainly strange. I have no idea what the original fairy tale was about.
Light in the Darkness (The Rescue): Microfiction
By Virginia Frances Sterret, Old French Fairy Tales, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Esmeena knelt on the cobalt blue tiles in her long, azure gown and gave the small deer a hug. He had just come from patrolling the castle’s grounds.
Then she stood, and said to the cat meowing plaintively at her feet, “Honestly, Reggie, I am working on it.”
He was her brother, and she had accidentally turned him into a cat while trying to cast a spell. “I’ve had a lot of responsibility since Mother’s been gone.”
Their mother was at a Council Meeting of Orwan chiefs. The Council was trying to decide if they should intervene here on Earth, now that humans seemed bent on destroying it. Wars, demagogues, fracking—the list of horrors and craziness seemed to grow daily. Thousands of years ago, the Orwan had come to Earth from the Planet of the Blue Ponies, (which was why they loved blue so much). They generally kept to their own realm, invisible to humans.
“I’m sure it’s not all that terrible,” Esmeena continued, “there is that female cat who seems to like you. And after all, you do still have all your. . .um. . .parts.”
At that, Reggie tried to spring at her, but he miscalculated the width of the table between them. With all four legs stretched out wide, he slid right over the table and crashed onto the floor on the other side.
“You are the least graceful cat I’ve ever seen,” said Esmeena.
Just then the massive castle door was flung open. Their mother entered, wearing a midnight blue cape and a frown.
She looked at Reggie, muttered some words, snapped her fingers, and he returned to his normal form. He rose from the floor, all gangly arms and legs.
“Esmeena, what has been going on here?”
“I was trying to reinforce the barrier,” Esmeena said.
“Didn’t you think I would check on it before I left? But why did you think a sparkling rainbow-colored barrier would make the castle invisible to humans?”
“Everything is so dark now. I just wanted to make something light and cheerful.”
“Child,” said her mother, “I can see I still have much to teach you. Don’t you know the light is within you? We carry it in our hearts.” She touched her chest, then picked up a candle that now glowed brightly in the darkness of winter night.
“Come,” she said to her children, “the moon is humming. It’s time. Let’s go celebrate the solstice.”
This story is for Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge.
The prompt was the painting above.
The Red Tree: Microfiction
Virginia Sterrett (Old French Fairy Tales (1920)) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Dove was tired of rules telling her how to dress, how to behave, how to think. She tore off the black cloak that covered her from head to ankle and threw it to the ground. She took the pins from her hair and let the breeze toss about her long, golden brown curls. She removed her shoes to feel the grass, slightly damp, on her bare feet. Then she walked to the red tree with its fruit of many colors, and defying the laws of her people, she picked a purple one and took a bite. She didn’t die; she didn’t feel any ill effects at all. In fact, the forbidden fruit was delicious. She continued to munch on it as she strolled home, ignoring the gasps and murmured prayers of the people she encountered.
Within an hour, the council summoned her. Though her parents begged for leniency, Dove was unrepentant, and the council banished her from the village. She hugged her parents and left her homeland.
She walked for days and nights until her food was gone. Wrapping herself in the hated cloak, she cried herself to sleep. In the morning, she woke to see the bright, rosy-pink dawn, and she was filled with hope that something good would happen that day.
She brushed the dirt from her clothing and continued her journey. Before long, she came to a town. As she approached it, she heard the most glorious sound. She stopped a woman and asked her what the sound was.
“It’s the town choir,” the woman said. “Come, I’ll show you.”
The woman took Dove to the town hall. There Dove saw that the sound—music—came from a group of men, women, and children dressed in colorful garments.
That is how a rainbow must sound, thought Dove.
In time, Dove discovered that she had a voice, too. All she had to do, was open her mouth and let it out.
This was the first of many discoveries Dove made. She soon realized that the people of her homeland were not protected, they were trapped there by their ignorance and fear. She took a new name, Violette, for the purple fruit she plucked from the red tree, the fruit that set her on her journey of discovery and knowledge. Eventually, she fell in love and gave birth to a daughter. They named her Aurora as a reminder that dawn always comes, even after the darkest night.
Although I went way above the word count, this fairy tale is for Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge. The prompt was the painting above. I have no idea what old French fairy tale it is actually illustrating.
Chosen: Microfiction
Ilya Repin. “Choosing a Bride for the Grand Duke” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Once long ago, as the full moon glowed in the sky, a line of maidens stood in brilliantly colored gowns and feathered headdresses. They chattered and peeped like exotic birds, as they waited for the king to arrive to choose one of them to be his bride.
Katerina alone was silent; she comforted herself with the thought that she was unlikely to be chosen. She had nothing against the king in particular—he seemed pleasant enough. But marriage to him meant a life of seclusion in the women’s quarters, a gilded cage, a life spent producing babies and little else.
Katerina’s mother had convinced her father that reading was a skill that would allow Katerina to assist her future husband. So as she stood waiting in the Great Hall, Katerina read. When the trumpets sounded, announcing the King’s arrival, she quickly tucked her book inside one of her wide sleeves.
As the king strode down the line, each maiden curtsied before him. When he stood in front of Katerina, she bent low, and as the king took her hand, the book slipped from her sleeve and dropped to the ground. The onlookers gasped, but the king merely bent and picked up the book. Glancing at its title, he smiled, commenting that philosophy was an unusual choice for a woman. He handed the book back to Katerina and walked on. Throughout the night, the king talked to all of the women, but he kept returning to Katerina.
At dawn, the King announced he had chosen Katerina to be his queen. As a result, carrying books—even if they were not read–became a fad among unmarried women. Over time, Katerina adjusted to her role as queen and to life in a “gilded cage”—though she had to admit that it was a luxurious, gilded cage that many would envy. Using her position, she convinced the king to let her teach all the women at court to read. A generation later, all of girls in their country, as well as the boys, were permitted to go to school. Finally, after many decades, on another moonlit night, a woman became the leader of the nation. She was also named Katerina, after her distant ancestor, the queen who made books and reading fashionable.
This fairy tale was written when I was feeling hopeful. It is for Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge—though I am again stretching the meaning of the term “micro.” There were two possible painting prompts, I chose the one above.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
