King’s Manor - King James I & VI
History - As you’ll see from the commemorative plaque on the gates leading up to King’s Manor, King James I once stayed here. A controversial ruler of England & Scotland in the 17th century, he greatly influenced the compilation of what we know today as the King James bible, and wrote many books on subjects such as daemonologie, witches and the hunting thereof, what it means to be King, and he also wrote poetry. Despite being married, he was known to have had a number of male courtiers, known as his “favourites”, sparking speculation about his sexuality. One such favourite was George Villiers, whose likeness is believed to be carved into the archway around this door into King’s Manor alongside King James himself.
This building was the headquarters of the Council of the North during the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII who also visited the house. It would also much later be used as school buildings where a young Anne Lister would meet her first girlfriend.
You (made slow dancing a sad affair,)
& I (wore the shirt you said you thought you liked)
Every morning we would meet
in the long white galley kitchen
for breakfast,
I had my second cigarette out of the back door,
you often looked on disapprovingly even though
you smoked too,
Waiting for the smell
of fresh coffee brewing in the pot
to reach your room, the spatter
off the bacon catching
the sunlight, we would
eat and drink, smiling, and all
quiet.
You would leave for work
before me, so I got to sit in
our quiet moment a little longer than you did,
I became more attached to it.
We spent the evenings in intimate proximity,
we would read to each other, or write
quietly, taking
opposite windows as our view into inspiration,
month after month, we played
host to our own little gothic summer salon.
And all quiet. Now.
Those months stretched out long
before us, and zipped
by without us
both in tow, and at the end, you couldn’t
meet my eye,
hold my hand, or stop
talking while saying
nothing. I fell,
and you let me. You pulled the strings,
and I let you.
No one could ever know or believe what had happened here.
I sometimes forget it’s just a story myself.
Sometimes when re-telling the story, it’s in your voice.
All quiet now..
You told me it was easier to love
me through the summer months, without
other watchful eyes, I couldn’t understand
what changed?
I thought it had to be me. It couldn’t
have been you. It wasn’t.
You were lonely,
and I was there.
I was there, and you
were lonely.
All quiet then.
Now I’m torn between skinny jeans chafing my thighs
and dungarees chafing my nipples.
These summer months are less kind,
your voice is corrupted now by my manifesting
falling leaves, my memory
of you is always just a little more lost in the mulch,
rotten in the cider apple,
and only hums with drunken wild-life.
Is it easier now to love myself? I often want to ask
you so many things.
But all the answers are just stories
told loudly again by schrodinger's twat.
This time slightly different again.
You wouldn’t stop.
I would.
But you never ask.
All quiet again. Now.
Prompt
Place your hand on the stone of the archway, and become part of their inner sanctum, overhearing the shared secrets, the intimacies and emotions that lie just beneath the surface. Close your eyes and breathe deeply, feeling your own body grounded to this moment in history. As you open your eyes, let your gaze settle on the carved faces, the expressions, and think on the necessity of having a relationship immortalised in the stone. Now, reflect on a personal moment when you felt a similar connection—perhaps a love that was secret, an unspoken bond, or a desire that went unacknowledged. Roll out your best unrequited love story for material? Sorry, it can’t just be a poet thing.
Draw from the connection you've just made in your mind. Just as the figures in the carving express something wordless and eternal, use this moment to reflect on a personal story—an experience where your feelings, like theirs, were trapped or hidden. Write a letter, poem, or confession that releases what has been carved into you by your experiences. You are Michelangelo releasing your own self as David from the shackles of stone that bind him.