By Salie Davis

Ode to Isabella Whitney

In days of old, when words, like magic held, might,

A heroine sang songs with her dulcimer held tight,

Her songs journeyed through time, her words inspired,

With stories to tell, from days of yore, but others conspired.

They cared not for her words, they cared not for her ways,

They cared not for her voice or her heroic displays,

Baseborn, she was a commoner in social standing swayed,

Born in the 16th century, in her poetry, her roots are displayed,

She sang of the future when norms advance,

Rejecting bias, hoping the old world to entrance.

But they cared not for her, they cared not in kindness,

They cared only for the control they kept through their blindness

In a bustling tavern, ‘neath the candle’s gleam,

This maiden and her suitor, love’s tender dream,

With a buss, they sealed their hearts as one,

In the glow of passion, their love song had begun.

He cared for her beauty, not the wealth gained by her song

He cared for her body, but he had no heart to fight the wrong.

“Buss,” a kiss, is not always a gesture of affection true,

She sang her song alone, with child, as love’s bitter debut,

A heroine, her words echoed through time,

With her dulcimer, she sang her rhymes sublime.

His heart was not true when tested by time.

He grew weary of the wisdom found in her rhyme.

In the shadowed alleyways, where mischief danced,

A rapscallion grinned, his eyes askance,

With pockets full of secrets, he’d roam the night,

A trickster of darkness, an elusive sight.

He stole all of her treasures, her books, and her lute,

He stole all of her songs and even her flute.

Rapscallion, a mischievous rogue’s decree,

Hated her words, its roots you’ll see,

Yet this heroine, though now little known, did emerge,

To defeat the rapscallion, the one behind the slyful purge.

She fought against the tide but it was not just the one

For all turned against her for the stories she’d spun.

In the bustling marketplace, where judgments flew,

They called her a strumpet, with her own truth to pursue,

For life’s harsh trials had shaped her path,

In a world of judgment, she bore love’s aftermath.

She felt alone and disparaged for her love of the word

She thought she could bring change if only they heard

“Strumpet,” once a word with scorn’s refrain,

Wrongfully called, to defame, her song to attain.

Meaning a prostitute, or wanton dame,

A word of old, now lost in language’s game.

A meaning from the past, a word used to shame,

Belittling they taunted, to silence her art’s flame.

Lies they told to tear her apart.

Slighting they teased, to silence her art

In a quaint countryside, a village serene,

Circumjacent fields, within nature’s green,

A tranquil embrace, in the heart of the land,

Where a woman of simple beauty, took a stand.

She found a fountain, a pen a parchment, and then,

Composed in the darkness by lantern till the sun rose again.

“Circumjacent,” is what she would do, though forlorn,

She would surround her foes, on a path barely worn,

She treasured her words with a hallowed stance,

In the language of yore, she found her chance.

She would continue to walk with her words by her side

in languages old, to preserve and not hide,

So, in words of old, her stories she continues to share,

From eras long past, when words had their flair,

Though they may be baseborn or archaic in sound,

In the echoes of history, her tales are still found.

Now my teacher once told me not to use old words,

but this tale has proven, in life, in literature, that limits are absurd!