give the queen a Chance!

is for Chant Royal

Chant Royal is a form of French poetry first introduced in the 14^th century in France, to address “heroic” or “regal” subjects.  It made its way into English in the 19^th century, and its complexity put some people off... um... royally.  No surprises there.

The rules for a chant royal are

•  3 or 5 eleven-line stanzas, and a 5 or 7 line envoi in the end

• The rhyme scheme is ababccddedE for the main stanzas, and ddedE for a 5-line envoi, or ccddedE for a 7-line one.  For my part, a 7-line ending sounds suspiciously more like a stanza than an envoi, so I’m going to stick with a 5-line one.

• E stands for a refrain, usually addressed to the “prince” or king

Goddess and Queen

She is the undisputed monarch, the queen,

the reigning power above us all

human and animalkind, man and machine

we must bow before her, or we fall;

she doesn’t make her anger felt too often

but when she does, she doesn’t stop to soften

the sting of her tongue, or the way the blow

crumples her victim, her wrath may be slow

but hers is an iron fist, no gloves of silk or satin

lie in her drawers, row upon lavish row.

She is the queen, and she herself the queenpin.

She turns oceans blue, and apples green

scoops valleys deep, and heaves mountains tall,

makes beauty flourish in places unforeseen

shores curl in fear and forests sprawl;

she presses blooms into our hands and garden

hefts with ease whatever be the burden

and ensures we reap exactly what we sow

her lessons are long and haphazard, although

she doesn’t delay the test, once they have sunk in;

she knows how much we do or do not know.

She is the queen, and she herself the queenpin.

She is there in every gleam of river, every sheen

of seawave in black nights, in every small

mote of dust, in crushed leaves, in between

the orbits of clouds and their central fireball.

She’s there in every animal scream, each uncertain

birdcall that jabs at dawn’s rising curtain;

she is the leap of the lion, she is the dying doe

the laugh of the jackal, the grace in the flamingo.

She is the only witness to each thing she has been,

she the actor and the audience in every show.

She is the queen, and she herself the queenpin.

From whom we’re drawn out, and to whom we go

for rest, Queen and Mother, once the sunset glow

fades from the sky, when the nights begin

and she choreographs each dream and each shadow.

She is the Queen and she herself the queenpin.

Posted for the A-Z Challenge.