rochester: a poem
stoic, solid, and six feet tall
the proud sardonic king of thornfield hall
he’s arrogant, independent, in need of no distraction
but to a mere young girl he has such an extreme reaction
many an evening they draw close to the fire
his heavy gaze settles on her and he pretends to enquire
about the watercolour landscapes her paintbrush imparts
but his grey eyes neglect them in favour of a better work of art
his words are a drug that’ll ruin them both
he picks them out, dresses them up in that voice she loves the most
they’re drizzled in red and funnelled into her veins
and are the fuel that fires the neurons inside of her brain
‘will you hear reason? because if you won’t i’ll try violence’
a rhetorical question, for that tone demands silence
the discrepancy in age is hard to ignore
she is not yet twenty and he a year past thirty four
but i for one can tell you i would have a hard time resisting
a man with wide determined hands whose advances are unremitting
she knows it’s not right since they’re on completely different rungs
for him to reduce her to flushed cheeks and greedy lungs
then blanche ingram struts in with all her airs and graces
it’s not the man’s heart however but his money that she chases
alas, it’s the governess he must have, and he goes onto one knee
declaring his love at night under a chestnut tree
but wait! what about the lunatic that he regretfully wed
she doesn’t hold a candle to jane (but she did to ed’s bed)
his secret is unboxed and stamps on her veil
jane decides that away she must sail
but don’t mistake me, dear reader, she has not a boat
only her own two feet and a trusty bonnet and cloak
but he’s comparable to none, for him only she yearns
to her beloved rochester she inevitably returns
‘all my heart is yours, sir’, and he crowns her his queen
by his wide determined hands she’s touched, but by his heavy grey eyes, she’ll never again be seen.
Charlotte Carpenter, Y13
the proud sardonic king of thornfield hall
he’s arrogant, independent, in need of no distraction
but to a mere young girl he has such an extreme reaction
many an evening they draw close to the fire
his heavy gaze settles on her and he pretends to enquire
about the watercolour landscapes her paintbrush imparts
but his grey eyes neglect them in favour of a better work of art
his words are a drug that’ll ruin them both
he picks them out, dresses them up in that voice she loves the most
they’re drizzled in red and funnelled into her veins
and are the fuel that fires the neurons inside of her brain
‘will you hear reason? because if you won’t i’ll try violence’
a rhetorical question, for that tone demands silence
the discrepancy in age is hard to ignore
she is not yet twenty and he a year past thirty four
but i for one can tell you i would have a hard time resisting
a man with wide determined hands whose advances are unremitting
she knows it’s not right since they’re on completely different rungs
for him to reduce her to flushed cheeks and greedy lungs
then blanche ingram struts in with all her airs and graces
it’s not the man’s heart however but his money that she chases
alas, it’s the governess he must have, and he goes onto one knee
declaring his love at night under a chestnut tree
but wait! what about the lunatic that he regretfully wed
she doesn’t hold a candle to jane (but she did to ed’s bed)
his secret is unboxed and stamps on her veil
jane decides that away she must sail
but don’t mistake me, dear reader, she has not a boat
only her own two feet and a trusty bonnet and cloak
but he’s comparable to none, for him only she yearns
to her beloved rochester she inevitably returns
‘all my heart is yours, sir’, and he crowns her his queen
by his wide determined hands she’s touched, but by his heavy grey eyes, she’ll never again be seen.
Charlotte Carpenter, Y13
