Lamentations For Penelope Boothby Poem by Martin Ward

The Apotheosis of Penelope Boothby
(And its aftermath)



Sir Brooke Boothby and Dame Susanna
Found perfection in their only child.
Fed on their friend Rousseau's intellect,
Penelope's eclectic and selected education
Inspired respect for Humanity and intimacy with nature.
She spoke Latin, French and Italian by the age of five.

Every day Penelope would wait at the mansion's gates
For her father's carriage to bring him home,
And sat like the Reynolds subject that she was,
Reading on her doting Papa's knee each evening after supper.
What power on Earth or Heaven could tear asunder
Such a cornucopian temporal idyll?

I was not in safety; neither had I rest when the trouble came.

She was in form and intellect most exquisite.
The unfortunate parents ventured their all
On this frail bark and the wreck was total.

Three weeks of fever until that dreaded, awful moment came.
At the funeral, after the earth was cast upon the coffin,
Neither parent would speak to each other again.
Thirty three years of purgatory for the father,
Amidst the midden of penniless poets and artists,
Until Sir Brooke's blessed release from Boulogne's guttural distress.

What of the mother who fled to live with her parents?
No records remain, but wonder as to the intercession of words
Spoken or unspoken; blame unfounded flaunted
Between the unfortunate pair left to wander in despair.
Sir Brooke's wreckage returned to the valley of the Dove,
And now lies beside his beloved child.

Her blameless parents with blazoned affections, blest (or cursed)
Beloved, respected much lamented rest.

Heroes and Kings life's little pageant o'er
Might wish their trophied marbles told no more.
No farewell, nor time, nor place,
Her memory shall efface.


Reader, no poet's pencil drew
This portrait, it is simply true.

No Odyssey, but fifteen sorrowful sonnets
And masterpieces of art and marble mark the senseless dust.
Life's chequered carpet once was trod by living ghosts
At odds with life and death: now grant them rest.
This humble voice has but one prayer:
That parents and child may Heaven share.
Lamentations for Penelope Boothby

I was not in safety;
neither had I rest
when the trouble came.

She was in form
and intellect
most exquisite.

Upon this
fragile flower
that sleeps
in marble,
as if to wake
should feather fall
on angel's breath,
they ventured all,
and the wreck
was total.

Poet,
if only
these words
did not exist.

Heroes and Kings:
life's little
pageant o'er,
might wish their
trophied marbles
told no more.

No farewell,
nor time,
nor place,
Her memory
shall efface.

No Odyssey,
but fifteen
sorrowful sonnets
and masterpieces
of art and sculpture
mark her being.

Images seen
through veils
of tears.