The death of Guinevere.


Chivalry is dead;

Honour has fled!

It is not from the field of battle,

It is from the relationship of friends!

A man will take his mistress,

From those eligible and willing;

Sometimes regardless of prior affiliation!


Where is the moral appreciation

of the bind that ties,

One man to a woman,

Both physical and spiritual.

Many men have died;

A consequence of honour,

Or lack thereof, of the less valiant.


What price was paid by fair Guinevere,

For a stolen love, or was it lust,

Of a knight pledged to the just,

Who chose to slay his opponents,

In defence of his philandering?

What of ‘Sir!’ Lancelot, and his trust;

His obligation to his liege and lord?


A battle was fought to claim a prize;

It was not wealth, a kingdom or a city,

It was the price of one man’s pity!

Arthur, a King, left without decision,

Weak perhaps, could not avoid derision,

His levy paid in blood by those he owed no reprise.

Death for the Victor and his minions.


Ah! sweet Guinevere, what was your charm?

Nectar is sweet and wine intoxicating.

The bees pollinate the flower and consummate the seed,

The juices pressed from the berry stimulate orgasm.

The inhibitions of one’s stricture are removed;

Convention itself does not the response dictate.


Love is a palpable expression;

A feeling of inner self and well being.

The blood courses hot in its surge,

The nerves tingle anxious to meet the urge,

To stimulate that core and to fly,

Above the mundane and to be at ease,

Neither restricted nor unappeased.


Were you ecstatic from your tryst?

Is it conversation, or company, that you missed?

There can be no reason that confirms your deed,

To whom can you turn to reject or recede,

The impulse committed beyond your vow,

To give to no other what the law may allow?

The satisfaction of what may be marital bliss!


Beauty may be the curse of insanity;

A force that drives beyond depravity.

What maiden form is so comely,

That nature directs all attention to her?

The heaving breast, or the swaying hip, suggests,

A reward that both fulfills and gives pleasure!

The body offers much where the mind may resist.


Fair Guinevere, with eyes so pale, so blue;

With such golden and fragrant hair,

You are the woman who could have sat at the well;

You are the idol for whom Troy fell;

The walls of Jericho may have remained firm,

But for the want of such a woman as you;

Man’s will lost to his most basic instinct.


There is a passion deep within,

That drives both woman and man!

The need for acceptance, of self esteem;

An appreciation of a personal dream,

Where he, or she, who serves, gives all,

To provide the most provocative of needs,

Where fantasy can be sexually an explicit deed.


How many more ‘Guineveres’ have there been?

To each one that has pursued her feeling;

One question only can be asked,

‘Was the gain obtained worth the cost?’

Can a woman be pure and sexually free?

Who will determine what should be?

The covenant of a couple, a sacred oath,

Valid only while it is maintained by both.


Love: the pursuit of happiness!

Determined by virginal response and almighty phallus.

The beckoning of the wild surely calls,

Where animal nature is often explored.

The night can be as long as the day;

A time for consummation of promises,

Tainted with the essence of intercourse!


Are men the reason for womens’ passion?

There are more common elements enjoyed,

By those who prefer a different friend!

Is the loss of one partner so great?

There are standards given and standards applied,

To the relationship of other less permanent bonds,

For which no social contract has been implied.


How ill spent is youth’s voluptuousness?

There are eddies and currents that flow,

Immersing emotion of girl and boy.

Great is the innocence of the innocent!

A flower blossom plucked, soon loses its glow;

The fragrance of the rose as sweet,

As the ripeness of strawberry, or cherry.


Plato knew that for friendship only to exist,

The focus must be beyond the grasp;

A treasured possession, only to be discussed.

The waters of emotion are deep,

They cry the tears of those who moan and weep.

The goddess must remain on the pedestal,

Worshipped from afar, never held too close to resist.


Chivalry has died; a tradition now buried,

Respect for morality the one concession.

No longer does the sword defend its master,

Or, mistress, who might avert implied disaster,

By maintaining the chaste key of passion,

To the storeroom of foods for consumption,

To be savoured at the appropriate banquet.


What marker will be set upon the grave,

Of she who gave of herself for free?

How deep will he lie who bedded down,

Between the depths that were not his to be?

Will the darkness envelop the deed?

Can the light of day cloak that hour,

Of moments stolen, where each satisfied what they craved?


Ah! sweet Guinevere, the rest you now know!

There is a price to be paid for wanton love,

For even the bees know, how sticky is the honey!

The sweetness of life may offer ecstasy,

But the payment due must be made,

Prior to relishing the diet of love food,

Being sated may leave you alone!


Why do you not weep for your loved one?

Are the hills that echo, his voice, asleep?

Can the lake of your desire flow as fast,

As the sparkling waters coursing through the valley,

Where the warmth of blood now mingles,

With the ice cold snows of winter?

Tears swept away by the first warm breeze!


Evil unto him who evil does!

Christ said we convicted ourselves in thought!

The greater the temptation, the greater risk,

Of disobedience to a moral code;

Written to offer some form of sustenance,

That life may be lucid to repel wickedness;

Where hell on earth strained against its self.


What heart beats passionately while being dispassionate?

Man follows his instinct and animal craving;

To which one do we owe the refinement of spirit?

Did Eve satisfy Adam, or did Adam satisfy Eve?

The gain of experience comes with some loss.

The apple plucked no longer grows sweet;

Life meets its flavour, a brief and bitter feat!


May 28th. 1996 © Will George.


Will George Poet