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A sonnet sequence inspired by Bartok’s Duke Bluebeard’s Castle performed at Symphony Hall on Saturday 11 June 2005.
Prologue
This tale has not been based on Gilles de Retz
who fought at Orleans with Joan of Arc,
It does not tell of Comar or the rest
whose lives inspired those Bluebeards of the dark.
It is not told in Margaret Atwood’s way
nor is it meant as something Cautionary;
a frightening ancient tale, a Contes des Feés
whose castles of the soul are visionary.
The muse that moved this writes a modern tale
to show the seasons of a love that grows.
Although perhaps the flesh at first seems pale
As Balázs writes and Bartok’s opera shows:
‘This tale is an old tale there’s no doubt
It looks within the more it looks without.’
Bluebeard
He did not knock her father’s door or walk
his path to ring their bell but pressed his hand
upon a horn that made her neighbours talk
of men they could have wed. ‘I was young and
beautiful like she is now,’ each twitching
curtain said. Husbands sighed, ‘And so you are,’
wishing for their lost princess and dreaming
of lives they’d live if they had bought a car
like his. A blast upon the horn again.
Her mother longed for simple days, the days
her daughter’s first love came to eat with them,
she loved him as a son, missed his kind ways.
A blast upon the horn again. Last shoe
on
a voice trailed from their door, ‘ I love you.’
If he’d had the common courtesy to
call, things may have been much easier. He
didn’t. The only thing her parents knew
was that he owned a castle and that she,
their daughter, seemed to think the world of him.
If he’d have called in for a cup of tea
their view of him may not have been so dim.
In fact they may have seen things differently.
As it was, they only saw his blue beard,
the way she ran each time he summoned her.
Of course they’d heard the rumours and they feared
that they may lose her. His Jag gave a purr…
and they were off, following their own star.
His wheels span to the smell of burning tar.
Beard of lapis lazuli, eyes of jet,
his wiser, older mind had seen the world.
Until he came to her she had not met
a soul that kept itself so tightly curled
but all those mysteries housed within his
eyes called her on, despite the edifice
of rock that was his face. ‘Oh, let me kiss
those frowns away,’ she cried, ‘is it not bliss
to be with someone who would love your soul?
I give you all I am, this open book.’
He took it gently, fearful of the toll;
the telling of his secrets. ‘Please don’t look
too deeply now for love may turn to hate.
Go easily, my darling. You must wait.’
The castle walls wept softly as they wed.
The touch of his kingdom was a cold place,
there were days when she felt that she were dead.
She looked in the mirror to see her face;
small proof of her existence. ‘I love you,’
she whispered night after night as he let
her move closer in darkness. ‘...and you too,’
he murmered as they fell apart. And yet,
in those ice starched sheets she wondered if he
could love her in the way that she loved him
her eyes were windows of her solitude
reflecting back to castle grounds the slim
hope of her sighs,‘Bluebeard, tear off your skin.
I long to know you Bluebeard, let me in.’
Castle days were boring. The lunchtime tray
at 1 o’clock was left outside her room.
For every fresh fruit, soup and sandwich day
she knew she should be thankful, but a gloom
descended. Staff were clockwork mice upon
the stairs, smoking cigarettes outside and
chattering about what’s on and where. On
Mondays the maid washed the clothes. ‘Can I lend
A hand?’ she asked. How the maid gave a start!
There was a simple etiquette in here.
Her awkward smile said Ma’am, we’re worlds apart.
Duke Bluebeard is the Sun. Is it not clear
that we are in his orbit? Her moon face
shone. She castled on – to a safer space.
Door 1
The Torture Chamber
‘Oh, Bluebeard, Open your doors. Let us feel
the other sun that warms each heart, each face,
Love, I offer you my all, but a wheel
of fortune turns you from my bed. Come chase
the pathway of our wishing star for dreams,
my Lord, I know now can come true. Put down
your martyr’s sword. Why blame yourself? It seems
our marriage has been torturous. Don’t frown.
I am to blame as much as you. Ah, yes,
my Love, you warned me that you could not give
as I do. “This may bring unhappiness,”
you said. But look, two years have gone. I live
and I still love you. Bluebeard, why withdraw?
Bluebeard let me in. Open up your door.
Door 2
The Armoury
Why not now? Must I make an appointment?
You’re never here. Why must you fly away?
A red box calls… the weight of government…
so many things to finish in a day’
Lear Jet shuttles and transatlantic flights,
power point proposals typed out on a
virgin train. I seldom see you. These nights
grow longer now. Oh, my love come and lay
your head upon the pillow of my heart.
The fax machine breathes fire beneath our stairs,
its dragon’s breath blows circles of an art
that will create new problems and it scares
me; fights and deaths, so much futility – put down your arms, my love and come to me.
Door 3
The Treasury
Castle days continue: Fresh fruit salad,
soup and sandwiches are left by the door.
Party invitations drive Bluebeard mad.
His wife chides teasingly, ‘You are a bore!’
Bluebeard, who doesn’t show his feelings much,
works himself up – gets into a huff,
‘I work so hard. I have that Midas Touch
I’m told,’ he scowls, ‘Is all this not enough?’
(She doesn’t see portfolios or the
vaults behind the door but she knows ‘blood sticks’
this rat race of a world gnaws constantly.)
‘Bluebeard, you know by now I get no kicks
from shopping sprees. How much gold do we need?
Let us be judged in thought, in word, by deed.
Door 4
The Secret Garden
Come, my darling. Look. See the garden gate.
Snowdrops are bowing their heads by the wall.
Love, let us walk before it grows too late.
Let worry, duty, wealth and guilt grow small
as our eyes feast their fill upon the flowers.
Where small birds chirrup grass into laughter
let us lose ourselves in these twilight hours.
Come now, Bluebeard. Run a little faster.
Stop the clocks my love, we will walk through thyme,
through lavender , through hint of rosemary.
Though bones have fed this earth, it is sublime.
We’ll walk within these walls in secrecy.
A nagual glues a tonal Sarabande;
this place is liminal. Love, take my hand.’
Door 5
The Far Off Country
Do you remember, Bluebeard, when we met,
so long ago in that far off country.
You never knew my parents then and yet
you took me from my home, my family.
I would have died right here upon these steps
if that would prove to you my love was true
but there were harder, far more subtle steps
that life laid out to prove my love for you.
The daily knocking, knocking at your door,
the tears at pulling back your onion skin,
the times when our love seemed that distant shore
I could not reach, I cried, ‘Love, let me in.’
Each stage through life I’ve had to find a key
to fit our lives but now love, come, find me.
Door 6
Lake of Sorrow
Dear Bluebeard, we have walked through many doors.
At first you feared I’d hate you for your past;
the drinking and the nights once spent with whores
on that left bank. You doubted love could last
but your doubting drove me closer to you
and even when you locked the study door,
needing that space where there’s no room for two,
I loved you, Bluebeard, loved you more and more.
You thought yourself provider, worked so hard
to prove your love. You tried to prove your worth.
Behind that door from which I had been barred,
you loved me more than anything on Earth.
Sometimes I think you think your love is cursed,
that if you tell your love that love will burst.
Door of Darkness
Now as we walk together, we will leave
behind those tears of our own suffering.
There may be other pains and we may grieve
but it will not be our imagining
that taunts us. Once, you had to have control.
You were indeed the guardian of each door
but now your life takes on a different role
its time to leave the safety of the shore
that holds you. Come, let us swim out through the
dark seams of this night for this seventh door
calls us. There is no need to quest, the key
was always with us. Let’s delay no more,
within this happy darkness we shall see
those sparks of love that shine eternally.
Door 7
The Fool and the Angel at the Seventh Door
The Fool:
Man channels out his circles in the dark,
the zero of each life – a pretty trick,
from lark to owl, then once again to lark
from star’s bright burst to flickering candle’s wick.
Behind the seventh door a good worm waits
to feed upon the flesh that mourns the sun.
What use is it to argue with the fates?
Man is a spool of thread – he is undone.
Angel:
Poor fool, go juggle circles with your feet!
It’s true that there are cycles to each life
But through this door that cycle is complete:
The circles of this man and of this wife
Kiss to form the figure of an eight – see
their flow of love moves all infinity.
The Four Songs of Bluebeard’s Wife I Dawn
When I left my father’s house in a dance
that you led, then my toes were clothed in dew
and my skin breathed all of Heaven’s fragrance.
You said this and sighed inside my blush. You
believed in us as much as you believed
in anything – but that’s not saying much,
for Ockham’s razor hung above your head.
You questioned everything a man could touch
and when it came to things so seldom seen,
those abstract things of Love and Beauty, God:
your mental faculties were sharp and keen.
Dissecting Man’s beliefs, you thought them odd.
I woke to feel the sun, to fly with birds,
I heard you name them: ‘robin’, ‘blue tit’ ...words.
II Noon
As we moved into noon my hair was dyed
a golden shade, more flattering to the skin.
I watched you age as you stood by my side,
a husband and a father now, and in
your eyes the pride of us shone before you.
The dog eat dog of business made you sad,
our children’s love was innocent and new
and so you hid them from this world gone mad.
Love, there were times when we were almost one
as in the burning mantle of the sun,
we melted seamlessly. Oh, how we shone
as all those doors within us were undone.
You ran through forests listening for each bird.
We walked and waited. Something in us stirred.
III Evening
And here we are my love at eventide.
The five doors opened. The sixth door leads out
into darkness. We talk as we walk side
by side. I know there is no room to doubt
you love me. Along this kerb you shield me
from the cars, no need to talk much but as
we walk we weave the way of symmetry
and dusk takes in our shadows. The world has
been with us too much sometimes; births, still-birth
deaths. Love, we move along together now
and there is nothing more to ask of Earth
except it helps our children to know how,
as lakes of sorrow form from human tears,
to lift their eyelids to our happy years.
IV Night
I know now how you love the soul of me
this tired old crone who is of ancient rite
for in my eyes you see eternity,
the starry ebonmantling of night.
I cackle as I laugh, you slurp your soup
but we are deaf to hear such faults as these.
We hardly stand together now – we stoop
to greet new generations at our knees.
This seventh door is sieved. If souls are true,
they move into each other at their will
but they can be a thing quite separate too
where consciousness is bodiless and still.
Here, safe inside a pine-cone, well or bird
Love forms, reforms a self beyond the word.
Julie Boden
Written at Hawthornden Castle
1st February 2005 , This draft revised 15th February
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