make promises, repent, conspire,
her time has come. It’s judgment day.
She’ll put her faith in fire.
* * *
If I said, Have faith that day,
and if In what? she had inquired,
I would have told her straightaway,
* * *
In fire, my dear, in fire.
Joan
From Beauvoir they moved me to Rouen,
where a bishop, Pierre Cauchon, was
the master of my trial. Even
now I see the backwards smile
that really was no smile at all.
He asked me to recall my youth,
which was unsettling for me. They
used my memory of the ancient
Fairy Tree to twist the truth and
say I was a young disciple
of the Fiend, the Evil One. Even
childhood’s innocence can be knotted,
twisted, stretched, and spun if the spiders
are clever. When they were done, they’d
transformed those guiltless days into
debauched, unholy fun. Their minds
were sharp and coiled, like serpents
hiding in a maze. Such are evil
men, and their deceitful, bitter
ways. I’m glad my mother cannot
see me tied here to this stake. I
was her eldest daughter; it would
cause her heart to break.
The Stake
I am her best
and only
friend, her stal-
wart intimate.
On me she’s
learned she
can depend. I
am her best
and only
friend. We’ll
be upright to
the end. She
doesn’t love
me, but I am
her best and
only friend,
her stalwart
intimate. We
stand together,
she and I. I’ll
never let her
go. Until the
flames burn hot
and high we’ll
stand together,
she and I. Let
our ashes tes-
tify, we stood
together. She
and I! I’ll nev-
er let her
go!
Joan
Cauchon was French but was a
henchman for the English, whose most
fervent wish was to prove the Maid
of Orléans the Devil’s implement
and full of devilish tricks. His
loyalty was not to justice
but to the god of politics.
Bishop Pierre Cauchon
I am a man of God, a simple man
of faith whose solemn duty is to know
with certainty, without the slightest doubt,
the great divide between wrong and right,
between good and evil, between false and true.
As a man of God, I have vowed to be always just and fair,
* * *
so never let it be said that I was not fair
in my dealings with this “maid,” for as a man of God, a simple man
of faith who speaks the word of God, I know His true
and holy wishes. I know this just as surely as I know
that as a man ordained by God, it is my right
to judge this girl. There can be no doubt
* * *
about my God-given authority, no doubt
about my sacred mission to be just and fair,
no doubt that my intentions are always pure and my judgment always right,
for I am a man, a simple, pious, holy man
of faith and learning, a man of God who knows
* * *
As a simple, holy man of faith and God, I know Henry is the true
king, and whosoever should question this truth or doubt
me is a blasphemer and a heretic and should be burned to purify his soul! Know
that he is the worshiper of Lucifer! An enemy of God’s fair
and holy wishes! An agent of the Devil! I know this as a holy man
of simple faith, a fair and pious man of God who knows what is right
* * *
and what is wrong and what is just and what is true. It is my sacred task to set aright
whatever is abomination, false, sinful, unholy, unnatural, and untrue.
It is a grave and sacred responsibility, though as a simple man
of holy faith, a pious man of God, I do not doubt
or question. And that is fair
and good and just and right. And I know
* * *
that everything I know
is right
and fair
and true.
I have no doubt.
I am a man of God, a holy, pious, faithful man.
* * *
Know this: That girl is an enemy to everything that’s right
and holy and pious and sacred and fair and just and true!
How can you doubt me? She dresses like a man!
Joan
For five long months they asked question
after question, and always the
same. In their hearts? Deception. In
their eyes? Revenge and blame.
“Why won’t you wear a woman’s dress?”
“Do you wish to be a man?”
“Confess!”
“You are the Devil’s tool! Renounce his wicked plan!”
“Don’t you think that your comportment is a sin against your God?”
“Confess!”
“You are a charlatan!”
“Confess!”
“You are a fraud!”
But I made no such confession.
It seems to me my only real
transgression was to invade and
triumph in the sacred land of
men; a woman in their landscape
was a repugnant, mortal sin,
unless she was a loving wife
or kneeling nun or knowing
prostitute. They would have hated
me far less if I had been a
girl of ill repute instead of
what I was and who I am: a
girl who dared to live the life of
a brave and honest man.
Fire
I’m here I’m here I’m here my darling
HE was taken to execution, with great anger, by the English soldiers. . . . She began to weep and call upon “Jesus.” Then I went away, having so great compassion that I could not witness her death.
* * *
Brother Pierre Migier
Trial of Nullification
Joan
I am come to the end. My saints
will not save me. I surrender
to the fire that craves me. Let him
finally take and ravage the Virgin
from Lorraine. The savage thrust, the
burning kiss, the penetrating
pain will be my ecstasy in
knowing I was true; there is nothing
I have done that I would alter
or undo. The lightning pain belongs
to me, is mine and mine alone.
I was the Maid of Orléans.
I was a girl called Joan.
Epilogue
Author’s Note
In 1429, two years before Joan of Arc was executed, Christine de Pizan, the esteemed poet at the court of Charles VI, wrote her last great epic, Le ditie de Jehanne d’Arc. This poem, The Song of Joan of Arc, is the only popular literature written about Joan in her lifetime. How cool would it be, I thought, if my Joan were to speak in the same form that Christine de Pizan used six hundred years ago in her sixty-one-stanza panegyr
ic? Very cool, right?
Only, it wasn’t.
Joan turned out to be as stubborn in the imagination as she was in real life. For months, I tried to get her to tell her story in Pizan’s eight-line stanzas. And for months, she resisted. And so, as often happens, I had to put my very cool idea aside. In Voices, Joan now speaks in what might be described as a kind of toned-down spoken word.
But all was not lost. That one cool, but failed, experiment led to another. What if the other voices in the book spoke in the poetic forms that were popular during Joan’s lifetime? Some of these forms—villanelles and sestinas, for example—are still very much in use by poets writing today. Others, like the ballade (not to be confused with the ballad), are much less popular.
For the sake of variety, I’ve included forms that were developed a bit later than Joan’s lifetime, but many are those she herself might have heard, though, of course, in their original French. Adhering to the rules of these ancient verses became my way of honoring Joan, and it brought me closer to her and the people and time in which she lived. I hope they did the same for you.
Still, something vital was missing. But what? And then it hit me. In addition to the voice of the Joan I was imagining, I needed to give the real Joan and her associates the opportunity to speak for themselves. Fortunately, there was a way to do just that through the Trial of Condemnation and the Trial of Nullification.
As for the poems, the rules for each—governing such things as length, syllabic structure, and rhyme scheme—can be found easily enough online or by consulting, as I did every single day, Miller Williams’s excellent Patterns of Poetry: An Encyclopedia of Forms. Poems not listed—“The Candle,” for instance, or “Silence”—are, with one or two exceptions, patterns I copied from the songs of the troubadours. While I did not intentionally weave errors into the poems, I cannot say they are without flaws when it comes to the guidelines that define them.
* * *
BALLADE
Saint Michael
Saint Catherine
Saint Margaret
RONDEAU
The Castle at Chinon
RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ
Charles VII
RONDEL
The Cattle
The Stag
The Warhorse
RONDELET
The Road to Vaucouleurs
The Banner
SESTINA
Isabelle
Jacques d’Arc
Robert de Baudricourt
Bishop Pierre Cauchon
SHORT RONDEL
The Altar at Sainte Catherine de Fierbois
The Tower
TRIOLET
The Needle
The Sword
The Sword at Fierbois
The Arrow
The Pitchfork
The Crossbow
The Stake
Epilogue
VILLANELLE
The Red Dress
The Tunic
The Armor
The Gold Cloak
Acknowledgments
I would be a heartless cad indeed if I failed to mentioned the beautiful work of Sharismar Rodriguez, this book’s designer. Her perseverance in dealing with an author who is a graphic nincompoop went far beyond what a human should have to endure. Any praises Voices receives is due in part to her skill, her patience, and her persistence.
Poseidon
Whaddup, bitches?
Am I right or am I right?
That bum Minos deserved what he got.
I mean, I may be a god, but I’m not
Unreasonable, and when I am, so
What?
Like I said,
I’m a god.
Reason’s got nuthin’
To do with it.
But let’s get back to where it all started:
Minos comes to me,
Mewling like a baby,
Frowny-faced, heavy-hearted.
He’s got a hunger, he says,
A hankering, a jones, a thing.
But not for a woman!
This jerk wants to be king!
Of CRETE!
An island so dazzling
It could cure the friggin’
Blind. But it’s not the friggin’
Scenery this friggin’
Minos has in mind.
Not the harbors or the shores,
The god-possessed waters.
Not the sheep, the trusty shepherds,
Their warlike sons, their lusty daughters.
Not the olives or the figs,
The sacred, long-lived trees.
Not the amber honey
Or the honey-making bees.
Not the thyme-drunk lovers
Who sigh among its flowers.
No,
All this clown wants
Is a little power.
He’s got an appetite for obedience,
But no imagination.
And he doesn’t ask for much—
Just his own private nation.
So he wonders
If I’d give the people
An omen,
A sign,
Something impressive,
He says, something divine.
Anything to prove
He’s the man
For the royal job.
So what the fuck, I think.
I’m gonna help this slob.
Why not?
I got plenty o’ nifty tricks
Up this metaphorical sleeve.
And you mortals?
You’re ready to believe
Anything to prove
A god’s on your side.
Besides, I got no dog in this fight.
No skin off my hide.
So, I wave my trusty trident;
Ain’t nuthin’ for me.
And abra-cadabra!
A milk-white bull
Comes walking
Out of the wine-dark sea.
The oldest trick in the book!
A piece o’ cake.
But it doesn’t take
Much to bring you
Mortals to your knees.
Yeah, you’re hard to respect
But easy to please.
So Minos gets it all—
The palace, the power.
Big Man on Knossos.
Man of the Hour.
But all of a sudden,
He won’t play nice.
Look,
He was supposed to sacrifice
That bull
To me!
Poseidon, baby!
King of the Sea!
Tamer of Horses!
Old Earth-Shaker!
And one helluva troublemaker
When some jerk shirks
His responsibility and
Won’t keep his word.
So this Minos,
This “king,”
This two-faced
Turd,
Hid my bull and
Sacrificed another.
Like I’m some kind of mark!
A pigeon!
His younger brother!
A harebrain!
An idiot!
A jamook!
A snot-nosed kid!
The guy’s all ego.
BUT I’M ALL ID.
I could have turned his eyes
Into a nest for seething wasps.
I could have turned his face
Into a snapping clam.
I could have given him hooves
Or studded the roof
Of his mouth with thorns.
Could have fitted him with horns.
Flippers.
Feathers.
Fits.
Made him smell like an outhouse.
Covered him with zits.
Turned his arms into eels.
His teeth into snails.
Bleat like a sea cow.
Blow like a whale.
Boils!
Scabs!
Gills!
A snout!
Turned his
Ding-dong
Inside
Out!
I could have.
But I didn’t.
Parlor games.
A touch too mild.
Child’s play.
And Poseidon’s no child.
He needed something
He’d remember
His whole stinkin’ life.
That’s why I bypassed him . . .
And went after his wife.
When you play with the gods,
You’re playing fast and loose.
Enough small talk—
I’ve got a sea nymph to seduce.
Daedalus
It was disgusting!
The royal nerve of her!
I said, “Look, Your Highness,
I’m an engineer. Not a pornographer.”
And she said, “Look, Daedalus,
I’m the queen, Minos’s wife.
It all belongs to me,
including your life,