OLD TROUBADOUR’S LAMENT
 
After Jaume Capstan
 
I’m the songster slave to my lady who’s free 
as a bird to chirp back as she likes. It suits me.
The love-chains that bind us were forged in my fire.
I live for what’s not mine with proxy desire.
But I would His Lordship wasn’t so complaisant.
I was honoured when my cooing had me chastened,
and sent to the mountains to cool off minding sheep.
Now he trusts me too much. And I’m earning my keep
composing courtly love poems on his behalf,
chanting them as my own. I can still hear her laugh,
and His Lordship joins in, ‘Faith, a dashing young blade
couldn’t have made that sing. I’d give it to your maid’.
 
An Ode to A Generous Woman
 
My lover is dining with her next.
And it is her husband that is vexed
for he has become quite used to me
and wants to keep it in the family.
I’m faithful in my fashion to him
And he regards me as kith and kin,
a poor relation who needs a home.
I’ve made the servant’s attic my own.
 
‘You keep the home fires burning’, he said.
And sleeps soundly in the master-bed,
dreaming of marital bliss by proxy,
for he’s still in love with the doxy.  
Not least because she’s a free spirit,
who needs two slaves? And we go with it.
Serving her is our life in toto.
Half household goddess, half ex-voto.
 
But alas she wants to take flight now
on wings not clipped by the marriage vow.
And I’m the chavalier servante
who has been unhorsed. It’s pure Dante.
The circle I share with her husband
is a cold place. But we won’t be unmanned.
Our plan is not to fall on our knees
before her, but to tempt the new squeeze
 
with residential rights, his own plate,
a pension when past his sell-by date,
Still will a string quartet be enough
to satisfy her demand for love?
Or a brass-band or a male voice choir?
There is no limit to the desire 
of our capricious Maestra.
We’ll have to house a full orchestra.
 
Troubadour Poisoned by Cupid’s Dart
 
What’s d’amour, a passing passion,
wearing badly as last year’s fashion.
All’s left is what the children pass on.
And, if they’re none, what memories gas on.
It said, hate is faithful to the end.
But also remaining a good friend.
Complicity’s bows are made to bend
not break; and arrows in the air suspend.
Its friendly fire misses the heart
to make it grow fonder. That’s a start. 
A coup de foudre with Cupid’s dart
is followed by thunder’s late alert.
The golden point that inspires desire
from habitude loses its fire.
The alchemy reverse is dire.
It turns to lead and, alas, ire. 
All that glitters loses its shine.
A made match often improves with time.
And comes in handy when you’re dying.
Love’s more likely to end in a crime. 
 
A Natural Poem
 
‘The fencing is overgrown
with bougainvillea and vines
And they block out the sun’.
 
So goes my perpetual groan.
My patient muse leaps up, climbs
to clip the tops. A job done.
 
Now I grouse the sun me blinds
My inspiration will have none.
‘Get on with your fancy poem’.
 
And so, I close my eyes. Rhymes
leap to mind and smoothly run,
top and tail the verses home.