The Collected Poems of Rene Damours

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Sonnet II

I cannot of your grace and beauty write,
When simple words cannot such justice do.
If muses lack the wit to help my plight,
Then how can I right homage render you?
Since words alone cannot your beauty speak,
Shall I persist in vain to sing your praise?
Devoid of pride and mirth I′m left here meek,
And cry out wailful words in awful maze.
With nothing worthy on my paper writ,
And only babbles from my quill that come.
I find no solace in this lack of wit,
And rue the fact my tongue is left so dumb.
Though hope I that these humble words convey:
Your beauty bright outshines the light of day.

The story: This is an English sonnet, written for Her, then, Excellency Radegund of Tours. At an event, while we were sitting together at feast, His Excellency Godwin said, “hey, you’re a poet right? You should write my lovely wife a poem.” So, I did. I presented it to Her Excellency Radegund at a Crown Tournament a few months later.

Sonnet III

There is no greater thing on earth I've found,
Than idols crafted out of metals rare,
Who gaze down through their eyes of jewels so fair,
Upon the ones who worship from the ground.
And had they voices, oh, so sweet the sound
Their songs would be to those who've gather'd round.
So much that angel's hymns cannot compare,
To multitudes of idols singing proud.

But on Your throne one day I saw you sit
And gilded idols from my mind flew hence.
For nothing on the earth from that day since,
Is for Your precious grace and beauty fit.
For every idol shall pay reverence,
As they to You their worshipers forfeit.

The story: this is a Petrarchan Sonnet, written and presented to Her Majesty Deanna de la Penna at a Bryn Gwlad Candlemas event, I think, in 2007.

Sonnet VIII

So oft I muse when I’m alone, dear friend,
Upon the happy hours we’ve erstwhile spent,
Each memory compels my mind to tend
The laughter shared, releasing feelings pent.
The empty miles between us sorrows bring,
For nothing can replace thy presence sweet,
Just like a wilting rose I yearn for Spring,
When thine embrace shall my sad heart replete.
There’s solace to be found each passing day,
Though, Father Time doth his cruel wiles employ,
As Winter skies cling to their darkened grey,
And icy winds the season’s change yet cloy.
Since absence cannot my remembrance cease,
I’ll think of thee, my friend, and be at peace.

The story: this is an English Sonnet that was commissioned by HE Michelle for Her Majesty Toryn Sevenstitches for the Queen of Atlantia for Gulf War, 2016.

Sonnet X

Oh, how I love the fortitude thou hast,
Like how your arms can Titan’s weight uphold,
Or to the ground a savage beast downcast,
Yet ward a gentle babe within their fold.
Affecting for a goodly exercise,
No deeds you do are born from vanity,
Since you such tender habits exercise,
I idolize thy warmth and amity.
So movéd by the kindness you possess,
I’d boldly stand a tip-toe to recount:
The soul I love is made of such noblesse
That angels can’t its kindliness surmount.
Beshrew me if my words contain deceit,
For ne’er would I thy saintly self mistreat.

The story: this English sonnet was commissioned by Don Martin Malone for his lovely wife Lady Diane Mallet, as payment for a pair of boots he had given me. I was honored to be able to write a sonnet for her, as she’s an amazing woman and mother.

Sonnet XIII

A valiant lioness with visage bright,
Near summer’s end, in late July was born,
With emerald eyes that can the dark alight,
And fiery locks, her lovely head, adorn.
Her sharpened claws, so apt to kill, belie
The gentle touch to others she oft shows.
For rather would them to her breast apply,
If doing so would allay someone’s woes.
Though years upon this Queen of beasts may weigh,
As nature’s changing seasons carry on,
Her fearsome prowess she is sure to splay,
Should any of her pride receive a wan.
And so, we feast that summer’s day each year,
Our lioness, how you our lives endear.

The story: this English sonnet was a birthday present in 2018 for Her Excellency Amelot Lisette de Blammont, one of my dearest and closest friends.

Terza Rima I

If I could pluck the sun from heaven high,
And perch it ‘gainst thy royal visage bright.
The firmament would to the earth draw nigh,
And gaze upon our daily lamp’s sad plight.
For though it hotly burns enough by day,
To blanket all the ground with warming light,
Its gleaming rays, next to your brightness fey,
Is like a taper’s flame seen from afar.
If I could catch the azure ocean’s spray,
Contain it in a simple earthen jar,
Its contents, of thy sapphire orbs would want,
And grow so pale with grief that thine eyes are
Far bluer than the blue that it can vaunt.
If I could mine a mound of precious gold,
It’s value ‘gainst all lustful men I’d flaunt,
Or with it purchase tracts of fertile wold.
Yet if You proffered me one yellow hair,
I’d lack the will to costly metals hold,
And for that flaxen strand I would them ware,
For I’d have none of mounds of gold to gain,
One solitary, gilded lock so fair.
These words I’ve writ for You are without feign,
And swear upon my heart no falsehoods live,
For that I could not on thy person deign.

The story: this Terza Rima was my first, and only so far, and was presented to Her Majesty Gwen verch Cynwrig de Ynys Mon III at her Queen’s Champion.