There should clearly be a falcon
on my outstretched gauntleted arm
but alas I am just a convenient
perch for pigeons.
I don’t even know why I am here
They call me the Black Prince
but my titles, Edward of Woodstock
Prince of Wales and Duke of Cornwall
give the City of Leeds no claim to my fame
and famous I was in the Fourteenth Century
A fierce and feared warrior on behalf of
my father King Edward the Third
though I died of dysentery before
my king and father
so never inherited the mantle…
Larger than life as a soldier
I will say this representation
In bronze doth suit me
too large for any British foundry
I was cast in Belgium
brought by sea to Hull and
sailed stately by barge
up the river air to Leeds.
I have been joined in City Square
by other statues, some with
genuine claim to local fame
John Harrison – cloth merchant and school founder
Doctor Hook – a vicar of Leeds
Joseph Priestley – chemist and theologian late of Leeds
and James Watt though not of Leeds
he did his fair share to increase its wealth
with his steam engines
I never saw one myself
though the railway station is right before me
but I saw the smoke and steam
smelt the stink of the things
and my plinth has to be navigated
by commuters rushing to catch theirs
I cannot see those good gentlemen
ranged as they are behind me
but I do look with some affection
on the comely rears of eight naked nymphs
I have sadly never had the pleasure
of seeing their faces and the rest
of their scarcely concealed modesty
they are two lots of quadruplets
named “Morn” – carrying a bunch of flowers
And “Even” whose head droops
And, I hear from passersby
has her eyes closed in anticipation
of the coming night
It is a bleak existence in this civic space
myself fully clad and armoured
if not against the foes of England
at least against the Northern cold
but many’s the time I’ve seen
poor Morn and Even and their six sisters
shivering in the rain, the frost, the snow.
One night a group of “knitting guerillas”
as they mysteriously styled themselves
surreptitiously reconnoitred the
eight Art Nouveau sisters
with a view to knitting dresses more
becoming than their wisps of cloth
for those benighted maids
– they measured them up
found them to be some two-thirds scale
(I always thought them a little picayune)
but never returned with the promised gowns
and so the sisters shiver on in winter
or garner both sly and envious glances
from males and females respectively
the former admiring the petite but fulsome figures
the latter wishing they could be as unencumbered
come the sweltering heat of a city summer
– whilst I still suffer the indignity of pigeons…
© Andrew Wilson, 2024
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Dora in Poetics invites us to Reimagine the Familiar with a wealth of prompt poems to inspire…
As I explainbelow in reply to the comment from Dora, I fictionalised the Guerilla Knitting Group but searching for them, I find that Knit a Bear Face did in fact yarn-bomb some of the above statues in an action called “Wating For Winter” – photos below… The group seems to be defuct – perhaps another casualty of the great Covid pause…
If you are stirred to action and wish to become a Yarn Bomber or even just a group with whom to knit – search the internet for a group near you… The Truth Yarn Is Out There…
I love the reimagining of thought in your wonderful poem, Andrew. All is brought into focus by the lowly pigeon. No matter how high and mighty we are, in the end, we all become a roost for pigeons and their droppings! Perhaps a few politicians would benefit by having a few pigeons drop in on them to bring them back to reality!
I wonder who you could be talking about Dwight – mind you it’s the unelected ones I worry about more…
Fascinating, great research and well-related in verse.
Thanks Ain, The Black Prince (nobody really knows why he was called that) certainly had a full life but a shitty end…
Such an entertaining poem, Andrew. I thoroughly enjoyed it, amused and outraged in turns on the Black Prince’s behalf. If ever I visit Leeds, those statues will always be glimpsed through your poetic gaze. I wonder why the “knitting guerillas” abandoned their sartorial plans!
The Knitting Guerillas are partly fictionalised Dora – I did once belong to such a group who used to meet for a knit-in at a Leeds city centre pub, and after one such meeting I attended, I was walking back to the station past the nymphs and it was snowing – I took a photo and posted it to the group site captioned “Where’s a guerilla Knitting Group when you need it?” I can knit but I specialise in Tunisian Crochet and am currently making a hat using a double ended needle…
I cannot find that original picture but the idea conflated with the picture of The Black Knight which I took last week – glad you enjoyed it…
I have twice tried to comment on your post Dora, once from my phone app which wouldn’t allow it and now from my computer which said comments were closed. I loved the way you drew us into the secret dancing amidst the washing – magical…
the descriptive placeholder for this warrior in these civic surrounds gives such an anticlimax that it makes me think we should not erect such in memoriam –
“fully clad and armoured
if not against the foes of England
at least against the Northern cold
There was a lot of wondering about why The Black Knight was chosen for Leeds at the time and even more controversy over the naked nymphs – I’m not sure what it says about Leeds lol…
Andrew, I so enjoyed your poem, read it twice! The last stanza is brilliant.
Thank you.
There is so much doom and gloom about, Punam, I decided to go for a little humour – glad you liked it…
I really love the image with the black prince and his pigeon… also entertaining with the clothes for the poor shivering ladies… a lot of fun to watch the statues in a new light.
Thanks Björn, I often looked at the other statues including the comely nymphs but I saw the pigeons last week as I passed by and then I had to look up who the statue was of…
That was fantastic, Andrew! I love the voice you gave to the Black Prince.
Yvette M Calleiro 🙂
http://yvettemcalleiro.blogspot.com
Isn’t it srange, Yvette, how we are able to compose in a different voice – thanks for visiting…