While riding through a gloomy wood one day,

The Loathly Lady met the strangest man

She'd seen in centuries (for now a fay-

Enchantment stretched her years past mortal span).

His senses seemed bewildered,  gaunt his face,

And oddly-fashioned garments did he wear;

Though odder still,  he rode not on a horse,

But walked,  or rather,  lurched,  as if in fear.

Then drawing rein,  the Lady pondered how

He came to be afoot in this dread wood

Remote from hall and castle or the show

Of humankind,  except for knights well-clad

In armour,  bearing shield and sword and lance

To meet the threat of foe with wielded stroke.

Now pausing in her noonday radiance,

(At noon she daily looked her best),  she spoke

To him in French (for by her fairy-gift

Of language she perceived he had been born

In France).  ''Monsieur,  you are surreal,  bereft

Of your familiar home,  and rudely torn

Away from lovers,  friends,  hurled back through years

To walk in this sad wood within the realm

Of Arthur's Britain''.  He,  confused,  with tears

In startled eyes then answered slow,  ''Madame,

I don't know who you are or where you're from;

And how can this be Britain---in the reign

Of Arthur did you say?  Mon Dieu!  a storm,

Or some disease of madness fires your brain,

And yet---the way I feel,  the things I wrote

About surrealist principles---how did

You know that term 'surreal' ?--this dream then might

Be more than dream  in my Unconscious bred;

As Freud and Jung believed such things to be.

My name is Andre Breton;  and today

I walked the streets of Paris and was free

To argue with my friends in some cafe---

But now---the Archetypal Woman---are

You her''?  And then he faltered,  dazed,  distraught,

And looked into the Lady's face.  No mar

Disturbed her lucent countenance;  for yet

It was the hour of noon.  She answered him,

''Be not deceived by what you now behold

Monsieur;  an hour from hence I will be grim

In visage, spit shall slobber from my old

And twisted mouth,  foul pox erupt on both

My rawboned cheeks,  a plague of lice infest

My hair,  and blood shall bloat my eyes;  my teeth

Will grow to jaundiced fangs,  and you'll detest

My filthy manners and shrill talk,  and hide

Your face from mine---if face would be its name.

I am the Loathly Lady,  and abide

In manor hereabout;  there grew my fame

Of beauty,  and Dame Ragnell was I known---

As such you find me now''.  And then she laughed

Demulcently and said,  ''The origin

Of Woman do you seek,  the Perfect Draft,

The Primal She?  Sir,  for the compliment

I thank you;  but I am nothing like her,

Yet dare to claim my lineal descent

From that true Lady,  who did bring despair

Upon the world;  for through her later fall

To falsehood and disgrace,  betrayed her God

And doomed her children,  thus condemning all

Of us in sin,  for which Christ shed His blood''.

Then Breton slumped against a lofty tree,

For he was faint and thirsty and bemused

In mind,  mistrusting all he heard.  The day

Grew sultry with a brassy heat which oozed

Between the canopy of leaves to make

A stifling stillness in the wood.  ’Monsieur,

I have a flask of ruby wine to slake

Your droughty thirst,  and victuals to cheer

Both heart and flesh---this meal we’ll share---now come,

Before I shift my shape,  and you depart’’.

So said the Lady,  and dismounted from

Her horse.  Her beauty quickened then his heart;

She was arrayed in cloak of chartreuse green

All finely trimmed in gold.  She sat by him,

And from a leathern bag drew food and wine

With goblets which she filled up to the brim.

They ate and drank,  then fell to speech once more.

And Breton,  now refreshed,  began,  ’Lady,  I

Perceive you have philosophy and store

Of insight;  wisdom lives in all you say---

You are,  as you did name me too,  surreal.

What troubles me is that I seem adrift

In time;  I never thought it possible,

Except in dreams,  which have the power to lift

Or plunge the psychic faculties to height

Or depth of new-connected syntheses

Of varied elements---like sound and sight.

My friend Apollinaire prefigured this,

And practised it in superb poetry;

He wrote the Calligrammes;  pure concrete shapes

In words,  pictorial typography,

Confections of spun sugar.  All my hopes

For them were high,  and other poets,  such

As Eluard and Jarry,  did adopt

The concept too.  The Symbolists had much

Initial influence,  but themselves stopped

Short of full-grown surrealist work.  Rimbaud

And Baudelaire were both the principal

Precursors,  using bizarre imagery---

As in Charles Baudelaire’s  Le Fleurs du Mal.

I carried these ideas on and wrote

My Manifesto—1924

It was---and whether that far-distant date

Has any meaning for you, I demur’’.

The Lady turned her yet-unblemished face

To him and said,  ’Of everything you spoke

I know about;  you really cannot guess

The gifts that were bestowed on me by stroke

Of faery power:  the future and the past

Are both made clarities without the need

To crystal-gaze;  this second-sight has cost

Me dear,  because the visions in my head

Perturb my mind,  depriving me of pure

Surprises;  though I must confess,  that while

I see your former life,  your coming here,

Or rather,  why and how you came,  I fail

To understand;  unless it be to prove

Your surreality.  I am in life

Surreal;  surreal you are in art,  and have

A surreal clique where rivalry is rife,

With much dissenting from your views.  Mayhap

You have arrived to learn humility;

A traveller in time,  to find a shape

Of strangeness in this world you couldn’t see---

Not even you’’ !  ’Madame,  you speak some truth;

I know that now;  but one fact I require:

If thus I came to your own time,  why,  with

That faery gift you boast,  you lacked the power

To come through time to mine’ ?  ‘Monsieur,  I do

Not have permission to escape beyond

This present age of Arthur’s Britain,  though

I freely travel all within its bound,

And see the coronation of the King,

Or watch his shameful death by Mordred’s sword---

Whatever I may choose.  And everything

Throughout his reign I know,  each act and word.

And all the ladies and the Table knights

I know;  and every player in the great

And varied drama,  with its noble rights

And bitter wrongs,  high love and grinding hate.

Before we part I must expound my own

Sad story to enlighten you and tease

Out any pity lurking deep within

Your soul.  I am a woman under curse:

My present comely features which now hold

Your gaze are true;  for of an ancient line

I am a Lady of high blood.  Full bold

In honour was my brother too,  and fine

Were our conditions till a fateful day

Of jealousy befell within this wood.

One morning as I rode---the month of May

It was,  delightful,  warm--- a fairy stood

Before my path,  and in a wrathful voice

Pronounced a curse all terrible to hear;

My very spirit withered,  and my face

Became a mask of dire deformity

So hideous that my companions fell

Into a faint.  When they recovered we

Returned back home in dismal state to tell

My brother of the evil put on me.

His anger flared to fury at the wreck

Of my foul face;  and,  knowing magic arts,

Declared that all the words the fairy spoke

Had cast a spell of binding on my parts,

Especially my face;  and I would find

My destiny now changed.  And so it did---

For ever since that day I am condemned

To endless days,  a mounting pyramid

Which I must climb,  yet keep my present age

Within this Age of Arthur’s Realm,  until

The end of days.  And in his blinding rage

My brother blamed the King and sought to kill

Or harm him (most unjustifiably).

Such madness made alliance with that dark

And wicked fay who cast the spell on me.

Sir Gromer Somer Joure—my brother (mark

You well his name),  was once King Arthur’s true

And loyal knight,  who at the Table Round

Did have a place;  but when his hatred grew,

Departed thence,  and ever after scorned

His former liege.  Yet strangely,  from this came

To me deliverance,  if only for

A while;  that story will I just  have time

To here relate.  Sir Gromer Somer Joure

Was now the King’s sworn enemy,  and through

His arts and trafficking with fays,  resolved

To lure King Arthur to his end,  and so

Devised a riddle,  which for months involved

The King and many knights in urgent quest

All up and down this settled realm for one

True answer to:  What thing do women most

Desire?  They filled whole books with answers drawn

From countless folk;  but every one proved wrong,

For when King Arthur with great labour read

Them to Sir Gromer,  fiercely up he sprang

From where he sat and cried,  ‘This means your head

King Arthur--- I shall kill you now,  because

The riddle is not solved;  you cannot tell

Me truly what a woman most desires’.

But with the fairy’s curse that darkly fell

On me there was a gift of second-sight

Bestowed,  and by its means I knew therefore

The riddle’s secret answer,  and I let

King Arthur know;  and I pronounce it here:

To rule themselves:  this  women most desire.

That answer to my brother did the King

Repeat;  Sir Gromer cried, ‘From my sister

Have these words come;  but they are true,  and bring

Release from my requirement of your death;

Thus you are quit and free to go;  unless

My sister also has requirement with

Her mercy mixed’ ?  And so I had;  and this

Is what I told King Arthur then:  ‘My lord,

Before you can be fully quit you must

Fulfil my own condition by your word

Of royal honour---thereon I insist.

I love your nephew,  Sir Gawaine,  and mean

To wed him without more ado’.  Then home

The grieving King returned to tell Gawaine

Of my proposal.  That good knight said,  ‘Come

My uncle,  I agree to this,  for though

She were a very fiend I’ll marry her

And thereby save your life for love of you’.

Then Arthur and Gawaine both rode back here,

And meeting in this wood we made our terms

To have the wedding in that selfsame week.

And then our ride to Camelot---what glooms

Oppressed Gawaine---and how the King looked sick.

We wedded in the minster;  after that

My husband led me through the hall up to

The dais to begin the marriage-feast;

Our gradual procession wended through

Assembled noble persons; and how each

One gaped at me in horror,  with pity

At sad Gawaine.  My face did make them retch,

For like a witless beast it seemed,  filthy,

Distended,  gross.  And then the feast began;

A vile ordeal it was:  I slopped my food,

And slavered on my gown,  my tongue lolled on

My lower swollen lip;  engorged with blood

In both their whites,  my eyes rolled round beneath

Misshapen brows,  and  between them a squat

And oozing nose,  and mouth where stinking breath

Did wetly struggle,  wheezing in and out---

Oh what a fearful scene it was.   How Gawaine

Endured the shameful torment haunts me still.

My manners too were foul,  my voice a whine

And bray,  made worse by food sprayed out to spill

In sickly gobs across the dishes laid

So daintily on finest linen cloth.

Queen Guinevere with all her ladies stared

At me aghast;  the King had subdued wrath

Upon his countenance so darkly grim.

Below,  the famed Round Table stood,  all lit

By tall and carved wax tapers;  strangely dim

The light they gave,  as if to hide and not

Reveal that thing of mystery and awe.

And in its sieges mighty knights arrayed

In festal robes,  all noble men who bore

High chivalry within this Christian land,

Defenders of the Realm.  And then we had

Some minstrelsy and revels,  though in truth,

The entertainment flagged,  for none were glad;

And thus the evening ran,  devoid of mirth.

At last it ended.  Ruin spread before

Me in a squashy mess---pastries,  roast meat,

Fresh fruit,  sweet delicacies;  all these were

Hotch-potched disgustingly,  unfit to eat.

Then as the custom was,  my husband led

Me to our chamber for the night.  Alone

With him I asked if we might go to bed

And in the flesh thus seal our union.

And then with cackling voice I said,  ‘Gawaine,

I now desire we kiss each other’s lips,

As lovers ought to do when they are man

And wife.  But first I must relate what keeps

My features in the form which you behold.

A while ago a fairy laid a curse

On me,  a binding spell,  which makes me old

And foul in body,  and in spirit worse;

For I have endless life and leave to roam

Abroad throughout this realm of Logres while

It lasts,  until the very end of time.

But with the evil fairy’s curse and spell

There came three gifts of power,  which have bestowed

On me deep insight into human hearts,

Quick understanding of the language used

By foreign folk;  but last,  a gift that hurts:

To choose what form I have becomes your right;

And thus I can be foul by day,  and fair

By night,  or you can have me foul by night

And fair by day.  This choice I now confer’.

Gawaine looked stunned,  then afterwards he spoke;

‘I cannot choose;  I give this power to you;

You choose the form and time as you most like’.

Oh!  what a wave of pure and vivid joy

Engulfed my soul !  I cried,  ‘My lord,  a kiss’ !

Gawaine complying,  with his lips met mine,

And found them and my features,  things of bliss,

Restored to beauty,  wholesome and serene.

For now my skin shone smooth as watered silk;

My hair in lustrous plenitude crowned all

My comely head,  caressed my velvet neck,

Cascaded over polished shoulders,  fell

Unbound rich-rippling to my waist.  Instead

Of drily-withered dugs,  proud knops appeared

Upon replete,  abundant breasts.  I stood

Before him like a princess new-revealed

To his delighted gaze.  I pressed his hand,

‘Ah sweet Gawaine,  your answer does unlock

The riddle’s secret,  breaking now the bond

Of grim enchantment:  for I choose to walk

Henceforward in my present,  proper form.

And you have saved King Arthur from his death,

Because the riddle is made clear;  and from

This hour the King is quit to freely breathe---

Sir Gromer’s threat is quenched.  The riddle was:

What thing do women most desire?  And when

You freely offered me the power to choose,

The answer was embodied plain within

Your gracious words.  The thing a woman most

Desires is sovereignty,  the power to rule

Herself---and through your wisdom,  honour,  trust

And courtesy,  that thing I now fulfil;

A man has let a woman choose her life’.

And all the night,  the kisses that we shared,

This gentle man and liberated wife!

A new day dawned,  but long we lay abed,

Ignoring every breakfast-call,  which made

King Arthur grow concerned and fear the fate

Of his fair nephew,  Sir Gawaine.  So glad

We were together,  time ran by so fleet;

We didn’t note its passing till the King,

Now worried,  knocked upon our chamber-door

With urgent hand,  some mischief suspecting---

But when my husband opened it,  a more

Astonished man I’d never seen---for as

The King walked in and found my form so changed,

He couldn’t speak,  and staggered in a daze;

My beauty all his faculties engaged.

And later at our dinner in the hall,

The entire court did show amazement too,

With every knight and lady, squire and thrall;

Those nobly born or basely born,  those few

Poor travellers enjoying refuge here

From thief or storm,  were united in praise

Of such a new-wrought beauty which they saw.

King Arthur ordained feasting many days,

To celebrate the fortune of Gawaine,

My transformation,  and his own escape

From shameful death.  When all of these were done,

Gawaine and I at last were free to keep

Our promises to kin and visit them

Before we settled down upon our lands

To live a while in quietness,  and roam

Unhindered through our castle and its grounds.

And that Monsieur does nearly end my tale:

I wish I could tell you that we lived

There happy ever after;  but I’d fail

Us both if such an ending you believed.

We did live happily enough at first,

Until Gawaine had longing for his old

Adventures in the tilt-yard,  or to joust

At many tournaments.  His heart grew cold

Toward me and estrangement came between

Us slow and wretchedly.  And he betrayed

Our trust and brought me bitterness and pain

By dalliance with paramours (he had

A ready eye for ladies);  so we split

And lived apart;  he on his lands,  while I

Returned to my old home,  the manor that

My brother kept.  It lies on open moor

Beyond this gloomy wood…....but come,  the time

Draws on and I must leave,  for now I feel

The malady beginning to deform

My features from within.  The betrayal

Of Gawaine did thus destroy the virtue

(Though not quite all) of freedom he bestowed

On me that wedding night when he was true

To me in courtesy of word and deed’.

With that she rose and mounted on her horse

And made to ride away,  then halting,  turned,

Allowing Breton to behold her face

Now ravaged,  haggish,  a twisted,  ruined

Pestilence.  Horror seized him;  then it seemed

He heard her screeching voice that cried,  ‘Oh come

With me and be my love’---and then he screamed

And staggered up to run,  starblinded from

That awful presence and her braying voice

Which rang in echoes through the gloomy wood;

‘Oh Monsieur marry me and take the choice

That Sir Gawaine at Camelot once had---

Oh come with me and be my love’.  And now

He ran the more,  while ever,  pleading loud,

Her voice pursued him like some manic crow,

‘I am the Loathly Lady,  you must wed

Me now and be my love’.  Thus running hard

A faintness took his limbs,  his head was drenched

In sweat;  for her dread voice had drove a shard

Of panic through his heart;  his features blanched,

And with all strength now drained,  he plunged headlong

Beneath the trees and sprawled exhausted in

Deep bracken and lay still.  The Lady’s song,

Though fading now,  remained to haunt his brain. . .

. . . And mingled with the market-cries that came

In through his bedroom window from the stall

Down in the street.  As Breton woke from dream,

A Paris sky appeared,  soft drizzle fell.

~ Stanley ~

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