La Pucelle* - (“the maiden”)

The flames that lick my feet are cold
As once the flames that fired my heart
Were warm. The starting fire reflected in the
Red robed monks. The soldier’s mocking cry:
“Jehanne, where is your Michael now?”
Careening off the courtyard wall
-Fear of riots kept me from burning in the public square-
centers me, for so they mocked my Lord
As he clung to his tree.
But no lord can match the torment, I think, of
La Pucelle, a woman and a soldier.
I sacked great cities, I the Maid,
I humbled them before the Lord, their walls to rubble
Their wives to widows, all, all fell before me.
And now I succumb at last
By a trick delivered in the dark of night to
My enemy.
The Lord most high, who can know his ways?
I served him well, through lonely wandering
I served him better crowning France a king
And sallying forth to battle for him.
Who knows, perhaps I serve him best with this,
My death.
Who knows, I’ve always been a firebrand,
My faith a hot and searing torch to warm my soldier’s hearts
And burn the English as they sleep.
My standard alone released the longed for patriotism
Dormant then for years in France.
My angels guided me and I the men to fight for
Orleans and Reims and Paris.
Lord, the pain! A crucifix, oh please!
If any here of tender heart, take pity on me-
Let me slake my eyes on a cross before I die.
Before the smoke and flames succeed
And crack this shell of a body,
Thanks, good priest, please, raise it higher?
The smoke is hiding His sweet face from me.
Such yellow smoke I have not seen since
The walls of Orleans were burning.
The smoke smudged like charcoal, obscuring
Foot soldiers, its fingers drawing smudges on the armor.
The arrow winged its murky path through the billowing grey
And struck me. Glory to God!
His angels staunched the blood
As I, screaming, pulled it out.
Now I am screaming again. O God!
Where are your messengers now?
The strength of my right arm
Cannot deliver justice to those Burgundians
-Dogs, licking English heels- tied to the stake.
Lord, if you let me die, what good has my fighting been?
The king is crowned, but weak. My death may topple his fragile rule.
These bishops reek of English bribe, my crime
A trumped-up charge. Three days, and three months more
Though they searched in every crevice they found no heresy
My God, death if needed, but for a lie? The voices spoke of more than this!

Thin tendrils of smoke rising from the strands of wood,
Twisted into a makeshift cross and hung around my neck
By a poor man, his last offering to Jehanne, remind me
That The Maid is more than simple me, she will not die
As I will.
My funeral pyre will light the nights to come and then
One night I will be given to the river and disappear.
That will be the end of me.
But the fires lit for la Pucelle will be passed as batons
Down the centuries, blazing a path through the ages
By campfires in the snow, warming soldier’s hearts, and
Firing the souls of patriots.




* Joan of Arc, called Jehanne, fought for French identity and sovereignty from the English and Burgundians. She was captured and sold to the English, who convicted her of being a witch for wearing men’s clothing after a long trial where they tried to prove her a heretic. She claimed to hear from angels concerning battle strategies and such.