Bare-breasted-painful-perfect-panic
The sword is clutched in bloody hands
The knighthood beareth not your service
Give up your weapon as per demands
Parry not the pureness granted
Though forged with faith, you forged it wrong
Why doth you plant it through your ribcage
To hide your blade from grasping throng
Bloodied footprints down the throne room
I knelt to the King, I did not fall
If I don’t keep it pierced into my heartbeat
They will not let me keep it at all—!
The King beams down with crown of thorns
I know this well, my temples bleed,
But sentence he cannot and doth not finish
‘Fore palace crumbles beneath the creed
So resolute calloused hands on handle
They do not pull, they do not pry
I-am-not-stone-yet-sword-within-me
Don’t pull it out. And do not try.
I’m going to try something a bit different with this poem: a full, line-by-line breakdown. This is the most thought and effort I’ve ever put into every single word of a poem, and I think it warrants more than the usual explanation!
This poem is about the struggle of belonging: both belonging in the church and outside of it. I wrote this poem with existing as a queer member of the church in mind, but it honestly grew to mean more than that by the end. The sword represents identity: maybe queer identity, maybe just personhood, but certainly an aspect of the whole self that doesn’t quite encompass all of it, but that you wouldn’t be complete without. Hiding it by stabbing in right through the heart is the idea that if you don’t hide it from view or keep it somewhere that causes pain, they won’t accept that you have it. The church doesn’t (and I am using a VERY broad brush here, I know) typically like the narrative of queer members enjoying or accepting their queerness: it’s supposed to be something you struggle with. And on the other end, queer people and nonmembers don’t like the idea that faith and religion can be a positive thing: once again, unless it’s something traumatic like a wound, (and I hate using the word traumatic) then they won’t accept it as part of you. Please enjoy the full breakdown below!
Bare-breasted-painful-perfect-panic
This line is a conglomerate of words that are associated with both women of sacred regard and "bad" women. "Bare-breasted" is Renaissance paintings (in keeping with the poem's medieval theme), but also perhaps just nudity without the artistic lens. "Painful" and "perfect" are synonymous, and also complete opposites. And of course, "panic" is the reaction to this mishmash of identity: am I something to be celebrated or reviled? What do I do with this sword?
The sword is clutched in bloody hands
This line is pretty straightforward: the immediate aftermath of plunging the sword right into the heart. You can also swap the word "identity" or "self" for sword/blade/weapon at any point, and the poem remains intact.
The knighthood beareth not your service
This line can be read from both lines of this internal struggle: the church could be the knighthood --- not wanting my unique ability to serve, or maybe just not seeing what I do. The knighthood could also be the queer community or nonmembers, who don't want me as a part of that community because of my faith. That's why I chose the word "bear" -- bearing a burden is different from choosing to carry it: it's an imposition.
Give up your weapon as per demands
Both meant to call to mind the phrase "lay down your arms" and a little bit of scolding a child. The demands could be the church demanding that queer members do not "act" on their queerness, or it could be the nonmember and queer community demanding that I leave the church and renounce God.
Parry not the pureness granted
Parrying is of course the act of blocking or rejecting something --- this line is meant to be read as an internal request. I don't want to reject anything. Pureness granted is both the idea of salvation --- I'm not rejecting the church because I believe in the message, but also not rejecting the queer community. This is an internal battle: I have no power to reject anyone, nor do I want to.
Though forged with faith, you forged it wrong
Another dichotomy line: though I have come to my identity and self through faith, it can often seem as an invalid course of belief from the church. The "though" is how you read it for the church: acknowledging that I forged it with faith, but not liking the finished product. If you take the "though" out, you get the queer perspective: "forged with faith: you forged it wrong", therefore meaning it's wrong because it's forged with faith.
Why doth you plant it through your ribcage
This line is very simple, but is phrased as a question, because it's important to know that neither sides of this battle put the sword there: that was my doing. It's also just functioning as a reminder that I'm not holding this sword, it's still very much embedded into my body.
To hide your blade from grasping throng
This is where some of the "sword in the stone" imagery starts to come through: people trying to pull it out. It also serves as an answer to the line above: why doth you plant it through your ribcage? Well, to hide it from the grasping throng.
Bloodied footprints down the throne room
A visual path to God; going to pray, despite the agony. The sword is inflicting damage, but not preventing worship.
I knelt to the King, I did not fall
Probably one of the most important lines in the poem: I chose to kneel. I'm choosing to worship: no one pushed me, I did not fall to my knees by mistake. Queer people who insist that I'm being forced into worship would rather that I fell there, but it was no accident. Worship is intentional. I'm kneeling on purpose.
If I don't keep it pierced into my heartbeat / they will not let me keep it at all-!
There it is! The thesis of the whole poem. I sort of explained this in the beginning, but if both sides don't believe there is suffering caused by this identity, they don't want it to exist.
The King beams down with crown of thorns / I know this well, my temples bleed
The King is Jesus, and the crown of thorns is his identity. He's smiling because he understands why I'm doing this and loves me regardless. He knows this well: he suffered and died for his existence, torn between believers who couldn't understand why he spent his life among the sinners and the minorities of society, and the sinners and minorities who couldn't understand his divinity. In other words, the ultimate struggle. Originally I thought about making his imagery the spear in his side, but ultimately I think the crown of thorns is much more evocative and feels more appropriate since it's more than one point: I'm dealing with one blade, and he dealt with thousands.
But sentence he cannot and doth not finish / 'fore palace crumbles beneath the creed
This is the idea that the original and purest message of Christ is buried beneath the rule sticklers and bible bashers: Jesus can't even finish his sentence before other's ideas of faith or what "should" be drown him out.
So resolute calloused hands on handle
A simple line: the hands are calloused because they've been doing this for a while, but the meeting with Jesus has resulted in a renewed vigor to keep surviving on this tense tightrope of existence.
They do not pull, they do not pry
The sword isn’t coming out, not yet. I also like the word “pry” because of its double meaning of asking questions. Questions don’t get answered, not with this particular form of problem. The sword isn’t coming out, and it’s not my place to ask why not.
I-am-not-stone-yet-sword-within-me
This line is meant to parallel the rapid-fire words from the first line, but this time clarified into a simple point: now I know what I am (not stone, a human, flesh and blood) and I know what I’m going to do. (Keep the sword where it is.) There’s also the parallels between the sword in the stone again, with the idea that only the worthy may pull the sword out.
Don’t pull it out. And do not try.
The end of the poem: only the worthy may pull the sword out (but won’t, not yet) and a warning to others to stop trying to wrestle with my identity for me. Do not try.
And before I forget, the title having the phrase “drawn and quartered” in it is probably one of the more heavy-handed metaphors in the whole thing: the idea of being pulled between opposing forces until you’re quite literally pulled apart.
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