A thread for Orgahs to get poetry rubbished helpfully critiqued and also post a few favourites

Two by me, please give any opinions:

Tzykanisterin - something I did earlier this evening
Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Tzykanisterin

Look at the emperor, the ends of his purple robe gracing the dust;
He is majestic, his light brown hair reflected in his golden ornaments
And with each resonant word he speaks, like so much filth and so much rust
Is this majesty broken.

Look at the torch-bearer, his eyes lifting to heaven, pride and disgust
Toy with him, he is a pawn in some greater game,
Silver and subservience have taken away all, and he must
Act, with his left hand not knowing what his right hand does.

Look at the cruel daughter, her pretty face is clearly satisfied;
She is beautiful, in her expensive silks she is admired by all,
Her lips twist up into a smile, and her powdered face does nothing to hide
Her horrible mind.

Look at the heretic, the plain tunic he wears is embroidered with mud;
He is pathetic, his shadow flees as the torches approach,
And with each whisper his cracked lips produce, with his dark blood,
Is he made glorious.

Look at Tzykanisterin, the angels hover, like crows and like eagles
Above the pyre, and immense, unapproachable light hovers above them;
And the emperor announces, and the torch-bearer acts, and the cruel daughter smiles, and the heretic whispers.
Flames rise to heaven, and all is still.


Helen - something I did last Summer when I had too much time after an exam.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Helen

She walked in streams of sunlight fair,
In greenest summer leaves,
The Wind played gaily in her hair,
On golden Autumn eves.

The snows were warmed by second sun,
Whiter still than they,
In Spring the birdsong was outdone,
When she woke the day.

Her glory made the Earth below,
More stunning than the sky,
And Angels, when they saw her glow,
Declared that she must die.

They swooped in envy and they took,
Her from that sunlit glen,
And laid her, dead, in ice-cold Brook,
My Lady Fair, Helen.

But still Wind’s darkest melodies,
Are the most joyous songs,
And still the Seraph’s burning breeze,
Laments for Angel throng.

For Angels above and Devils below,
Could not believe that since then,
My lady lies as my Sky and my Snow,
My Sun, my Moon, Helen.


Also, one of my favourites:

William Blake's Tiger
Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies 5
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 10
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp 15
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 20

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?