Lady Guinevere

A new recording of this for the new album https://peacocks-tale.bandcamp.com/album/peacocks-tales-the-sapphire-wedding-album

Belle ami, si est de nous, ne vous sans moi, ni moi sans vous.

Let them play at boyish games round
A table. Though walled up, bound,
In an unpublished garden, stone
Tower with window, all alone,
This court still revolves around me.
I twist them all round my pretty
Little finger, a studded ring:
The champion knight, the poor king,
Modred, Gawain, my Lancelot.
It’s the only power I know.

Who waits… and do not wait to see
The object of his worship pass,
Wasted, into this looking glass,
Wheat-hair, rose-lips, unsown, should he
Choose to deny himself – and me.

He comes through enchanted forests,
Rough-horses, haunted castles, mists;
From slaying giants, big bad knights:
Barons with feudal appetites;
Impossible quests for Our Lady,
Sowing wild seeds Love meant for me;
Obsessed so with courtly sin and
Confession – Indulgence’s twin;
Greets Artos, old friend – clash of mail
(So grieved his crown still lacks a graal,
So tedious!) He comes to me

Who waits… and do not wait to see
The object of his worship pass,
Wasted, into this looking glass,
Wheat-hair, rose-lips, unsown, should he
Choose to deny himself – and me.

© Gareth Calway 1991

credits

This Guinevere lyric is written in imitation of the French romance verse form (octosyllabic couplets giving a lighter, faster feel than the English iambic pentameter) and evokes the medieval Guinevere of the troubadours of Provence rather than the Gwenhwyfar of Celtic myths and of Dark Age history. We wanted this Guinevere to sound contemporary and confident, chipping against the beat of the courtly love tradition in which she was a love object rather than a love subject.

Gwenhwyfar

All our own work, though in different centuries. I wrote the words in the 1980s; Maz put them to music in the 2020s. This is the grand finale of the British folk front side of the new Sapphire Wedding album ("Peacocks Tales, launch and listening party on Bandcamp Sunday Dec 1 5 pm) and, particularly after the instrumental section recapitulates the various strands we've pursued in unison and harmony: folk song, poetry, British storytelling and the combination of all three. It's a worthy subject for this, the long glories of the Arthurian legend narrated in the style of ancient Welsh alliterative verse as they come to their tragic end, imbued with ancient mysticism and Celtic myths of the cycle of the seasons, and from the point of view of Gwenhwyfar, joined by Bedwyr, the dwindling Round Table and the centuries of elegising bards after the bridge.) A very different Gwenhwyfar from the cocky Norman minx of track 6. Lord Arthur is gone, I laud my Beloved: Cross on invincible shield, blood-red, Dragon on young-summer green, red, The terrible clatter of returning hooves. I never quite believed. Always feared him Dead. But he always came. Arthur is gone, I laud my Beloved: Swift white charger swooping like a spear On the bonfire builders, the wolvers of women, Scourging the rat run barbarian inroads, Animal tracks of attacking Saxon, His spur-tensed Britons beat back the Beast. (Then Llugh fought battles within himself, Cei fought his own rule, Bedwyr fought Llugh, And some sought long for the holy caldron, Sought it like a spoil of war, And, gentle as light, my Beloved loved me.) And Medraut gnawed through the golden years Myrddin called a threshold to the dark, And its beacon. Medraut, eyes on me Like a dog’s on the moon, snapping his moment. To Camlann the coastland, carried me off. Gone my Beloved, my Beloved I mourn. Bridge And little the faith I had yet in Arthur, The Angel campaigner, strong as light, His sun-bright stars above the wicked forest Seeming to fade. Rusty the scabbard, Still magic the sword. And, once more, he came. I’ve believed too little. I make my Confession. At last I understood. The flincher from spears, Medraut, was part of Arthur, his shadow, Chancel and gargoyle had to be cancelled Where all deeds are drowned, all swords returned: Avalon. And I’ll run no more. I’ve believed too little. I make my Confession. Night and this nunnery will fall. Ravens Will flock on the gore. Let others keep A glimmer, a glorious page, of Logres alight Until the dawn. My confession’s done. Still my heart waits for hoofbeats. (Still, my heart waits for hoofbeats…) © Gareth Calway 1991 credits from PEACOCK'S TALES (The Sapphire Wedding Album) Maz: lead vocal, acoustic guitar Gaz: bass, percussion, harmonium, howls, vocals and voice in Part 2, common flute The film combines a seasonal cycle - Medraut the winter king to Arthur's May king and with Gwenhwyfar's autumnal mood as Logres falls into the dark - with a lake supplying the hints of Celtic water divinity and our splendidly spacious heathland-situated alma mater (UEA) standing in for Logres, Camelot and civilisation.

Lancelot and the Grail Maiden (the remake)

A most enjoyable collaboration with Bhas Allan who created the visuals for our atmospheric ballad. Lancelot and th Grail Maiden is about how the desperately grail-seeking but never quite finding Lancelot was seduced by the Grail Maiden (aided by the magic of Morgan le Fay who made her look like Guinevere) and thereby bore his son Galahad, who would replace his father as Arthur's Best Knight, find the Grail and thereby fructify the Wasteland. And that, Ron, is the paradox of our entire post-lapsarian exisence.

‘Come hither, Captain,’ the Grail Maiden sighs,
‘Thither away with me
To the rich wooded valley and holy well
My Waste Land dies to be.

‘Look! into the burning wilderness sun
Above the shadeless tree,
The high hawk of summer, hovering still,
The shadow of what will be:

‘The Shadowless One who waits above
To be born to you and me,
A Knight of Truth out of traitor arms
And infidelity.

‘Galahad the Pure, God-armed and winged
To bless our impurity
Unbearably born to steal your quest
And all of your shining glory.

‘Come hither, Captain,’ the Grail Maiden sighs,
And turns him a face so free:
His forbidden love, the queen of his dreams,
The end of all Chivalry.’

A faithless false knight in a failing light 
Fallen under a spell to see/ be
A Knight of Truth out of traitor arms
And infidelity.

Says he, ‘My heart is set on the grail
And wholly raised above!’
Says she, ‘It’s broken, and half is set
On your true adulterous love.’

‘I am her champion, she is my king’s,
I am their faithful knight!’
‘The Grail can’t be had for half a heart,
You can have that queen tonight.

‘Whisper my name, any name you like,
Any lover you want me to be,
A night of Truth in my traitor arms
And in fidelity.’

‘Come hither, Captain,’ the Grail Maiden sighs,
‘Thither away with me
To the rich wooded valley and holy well
My Waste Land dies to be.

 

 

She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 
           The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
           Upon her perfect lips

Lady Guinevere - the music video

This Guinevere lyric is written in imitation of the French romance verse form (octosyllabic couplets giving a lighter, faster feel than the English iambic pentameter) and tries to evoke the medieval Guinevere of the troubadours of Provence rather than the Gwenhwyfar of Celtic myths and of Dark Age history (who will have her own very different song in the set). We wanted Guinevere to sound contemporary and confident, chipping against the beat of the courtly love tradition in which she was a love object rather than a love subject.

The original poem continues and concludes as follows:
I have a heart, self-determined
Core of I Am, God-underpinned,
Won on the Cross, for me. It can
Choose a beloved, a ‘husband’
The church would make him. But marriage
On earth’s not as it is (a rich
Royal land transaction) as one
With my Lancelot – in heaven.)  

lyrics

Lyric

Belle ami, si est de nous, ne vous sans moi, ni moi sans vous.

Let them play at boyish games round
A table. Though walled up, bound,
In an unpublished garden, stone
Tower with window, all alone,
This court still revolves around me.
I twist them all round my pretty
Little finger, a studded ring:
The champion knight, the poor king,
Modred, Gawain, my Lancelot.
It’s the only power I know.

Who waits… and do not wait to see  
The object of his worship pass,
Wasted, into this looking glass,
Wheat-hair, rose-lips, unsown, should he
Choose to deny himself – and me.

He comes through enchanted forests,
Rough-horses, haunted castles, mists;
From slaying giants, big bad knights:
Barons with feudal appetites;
Impossible quests for Our Lady,
Sowing wild seeds Love meant for me;
Obsessed so with courtly sin and
Confession – Indulgence’s twin;
Greets Artos, old friend – clash of mail 
(So grieved his crown still lacks a graal,
So tedious!) He comes to me  

Who waits… and do not wait to see  
The object of his worship pass,
Wasted, into this looking glass,
Wheat-hair, rose-lips, unsown, should he
Choose to deny himself – and me.

Anyone who's heard the hypnotic circling chords of CS & N's 'Guinnevere' on their eponymous album will know how flexible Arthurian romance can be. There, David Crosby is some West Coast modern day Lancelot caught - amid fraught pentagrams, orange trees, seagulls, gardens with aimlessly wandering peacocks etc - in a fatal spell of attraction for an elusive green eyed, gazing golden haired woman,  longing to be free out on the  sea with her. This is a long way from the Arthur of Dark Age history,  not quite so far  from Celtic mythology and a direct descendant of French romance:  the troubadours of Provence would have recognised this Norman version of The Matter of Breton in it even if the Dark Age warriors riding behind the Romano-Celtic Arth-Ursus into battle against the Saxons might have wondered what their warlord's shadowy wife 'Gwenhwyfar' (white phantom) was doing consorting with a general they hadn't even heard of, unless he was Llugh, the Celtic god of light and harvest, after which Londinos (London) is reputedly named. The point is, 'The Matter of Britain' has lasted because, like Britain itself, it has a magical relationship with time and place. It changes and it stays the same. 

My version of Guinevere below is very much the French romance one, the Matter of Britain as sung in French verse by Provencal troubadours, magical hero-stories exiled to Brittany (Little Britain) with Celtic Britons fleeing through Cornwall as the Saxons conquered the West, given a shining armour polish by the Normans, a brilliant gloss of French romance and courtly love and spreading across the North of Europe (and into Spain).  And that's before we even get to the later Arab enchantments, new learning and flying dragons absorbed as the Christians embarked on the Crusades and those twin propaganda campaigns, the Norman Conquest's identification with the Saxon-subduing Celtic knights of old followed by Henry VIII's repeat of the same, both to legitimise a new Britain using the old Matter.

"Lady Guinevere" was first published in 'Schools Poetry Review' in the late 80s and then in my first volume of poems "Coming Home" in 1991 along with an alternative Welsh-metered Dark Age/ Celtic mythological "Gwenhwyfar" the twinned poems evident love of all things Arthurian earning me an invitation by elegant formal letter to a British order of Arthurians which I was too wary to take up. I subsequently extended the sequence into a book of verse called "The Lost Land" which I learned by heart and performed as a one man show (Arthur; Britain's Making") - using masks and English, Welsh and Scottish flags - at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2011. Not to mention an epic school play "Jennifer's Gwenhwyfar" - epic in every way, cast of 70, 2 hours long, produced by 3 different directors in 3 different local schools, published by a teacher's training college, workshopped in class and with youth theatre groups, still rewriting it for various remakings 30 years later...

The audio link  https://peacocks-tale.bandcamp.com/track/lady-guinevere is to the version of "Guinevere" which will appear on our Peacock's Tale folk indie duo's forthcoming album of "The Lost Land" and opts for our remit of 'traditional' tale with 'contemporary' beat.

Lady Guinevere

Belle ami, si est de nous, ne vous sans moi, ni moi sans vous.

Let them play at boyish games round
A table. Though walled up, bound,
In an unpublished garden, stone
Tower with window, all alone,
This court still revolves around me.
I twist them all round my pretty
Little finger, a studded ring:
The champion knight, the poor king,
Modred, Gawain, my Lancelot.
It’s the only power I know.

He comes through enchanted forests,
Rough-horses, haunted castles, mists;
From slaying giants, big bad knights:
Barons with feudal appetites;
Impossible quests for Our Lady,
Sowing wild seeds Love meant for me;
Obsessed so with courtly sin and
Confession – Indulgence’s twin;
Greets Artos, old friend – clash of mail 
(So grieved his crown still lacks a graal,
So tedious!) He comes to me  

Who waits… and do not wait to see  
The object of his worship pass,
Wasted, into this looking glass,
Wheat-hair, rose-lips, unsown, should he
Choose to deny himself – and me.

I have a heart, self-determined
Core of I Am, God-underpinned,
Won on the Cross, for me. It can
Choose a beloved, a ‘husband’
The church would make him. But marriage
On earth’s not as it is (a rich
Royal land transaction) as one
With my Lancelot – in heaven.) 

lyrics

Margot's Guinevere

Smithdon School Drama Production

At Princess Theatre, Hunstanton
From 7:00pm
Price: £5.00/£2.50 under 16's

For tickets or further information, please contact the venue directly. The information given on this page is subject to change - please confirm with the venue before travelling.

About a hundred years ago (actually December 1991), I started to write a play with a group of teenagers in King's Lynn. They had just performed my play 'Getting On' as the annual production at King Edward VII High School where I was Head of Drama.  There is nothing like a play. And sometimes you get a big monster smash hit of a play out of nowhere and almost everybody loves you except the caretaker and especially the kids. After all, they are finally getting what education only talks abut: complete focus on them. Under lights. With applause. 'Getting On' was just such a hit. Producing it consumed all my time and energy and was a lot more exciting than marking the register, setting unpleasant homework and telling kids off and of course I wanted it to continue forever. That was how Margot's Guinevere started. Unfortunately it never finished.

This time I wanted it to be about them, now. I also wanted it to be about King Arthur. And I wanted it to reflect the theatrical realities of most school drama - more girls than boys can act. Exactly the reverse of the average playscript. I needed a play with lots of big parts for girls. So gradually I came up with a play about modern teenagers on a modern 'problem' estate ('Corbenic' - the wasteland) whose school is putting on a play about King Arthur, with big parts for Guinevere, Morgan le Fay etc.

Sounds good - but easier said than done. It was so huge it made Ben Hur look like a two hander. There were - as the wardrobe mistress noted waspishly - "twenty three long dresses needed for scene seven alone!"

Well, I ran 53 ninety minute after school rehearsals and eventually put on a 70 cast epic two hour show that ran for five nights and made a lot of money. The audiences were sell outs because of the previous play's success and because the cast was so huge that the relatives alone accounted for half the population of Lynn. The original impetus - to have a schoolgirl transform into Guinevere in front of the audience's eyes through the magic of theatre- did come through. I remember one preview in assembly where suddenly Arthur's knights in full gear rose from their places and became kings and queens. But there was too much complexity and, to cut a long story short (as I couldn't bear to do) I was still rewriting it fifteen years later.

A couple of years after the play's second production, (another school in King's Lynn put it on, rewritten but still unfinished, and directed brilliantly by Joan Evans) I became director of youth theatre at The Princess Theatre, Hunstanton. I rewrote the play continually, in between productions, work-shopping it again with this new smaller and very talented groups of players. One of these players was Vicky Sykes. She is now producing it for what will be its third public production on June 23, 2007. She would have been too young for the Princess junior drama group when I was started writing it with those senior pupils at KES in Lynn. Now she's running the show!

As my daughter would say, it's all basically kicking off. I'll be there in the second row, mouthing the lines I've worked over for half my career along. If the cast falter, I could probably take over so it's a good job they won't. Ex Head of English John Davies, who will be with me, will no doubt shout down any audience inattention. He usually does.

Break a legend everybody.