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bookshelves: to-read, unusual-stuff
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Jim
took the never-ending book quiz.
| questions answered: | 80 |
| correct: | 70 (87.5%) |
| skipped: | 127 |
| best streak: | 12 |
| questions added: | 0 |
Annette wrote: "...a "true" poet...read some of my stuff and said only 2% of all poetry submissions get published..."
I wouldn't worry about it. Being published isn't the measure of literary art. It's amazing what nonsense and dreck is published while works from the heart and soul are eventually trundled off to some forgotten landfill... Don't believe it? Take a gander at this: http://critters.critique.org/sting/
I don't let over-critical people alter my mood and attitude. Now you can smile and do the same... :)
Jim
p.s. Do yourself (and your funny bone) a big favor and read the blurbs! http://www.travistea.com/blurbs.htm
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The timing is slightly off for this one (since November 10th was the 234th birthday of the U.S. Marine Corps and the 11th was Veteran's Day), however...
Crisp
"Crisp, Marines.
That’s how your uniforms will be."
The D.I. spoke these words to us.
Or, rather, spoke the idea.
He reminded us again,
(for the tenth)
(or hundredth)
(or thousandth time)
Expressed it plainly,
but in terms more suitable
for addressing mere maggots,
and he didn’t say "Marines"
for clearly we were not
and may never become...
Marines.
Crisp.
At that moment his task was to instruct only how.
And ours to learn only the how of crisp.
He did not tell us the why, and yet
he knew that if he taught the mechanics of it well
then the understanding would come.
But, later.
We would discover why, but not here,
not safe and snug in boot camp
where how was all and enough.
We would discover why, but not yet,
not as recruits, incapable of learning
things as fundamental as
"our left from our right"
to his satisfaction.
Only later, when crisp claimed new clarity.
Crisp as a new layer of snow in the mountains of North Korea.
Crisp as the crack of the sniper’s shot—
the one that sent Sergeant Griff home in a box.
Crisp as the starry triangle borne from coffin to widow’s hand,
and the haunting, graveside echo of seven rifles.
Crisp...
Crisp...
Crisp.
James K Bowers
September 15, 2006 ]]>
For those who enjoyed Ice Dragon (above), I wrote this in the summer of 1994 as a continuation of the tale. It was published in Kankakee Community College’s "The Prairie Fire" anthology in the spring of 1995.
Dragonbane
‘Tis sung in minstrel’s ballads in bittersweet refrains --
Grim rime born of Fortune’s jest -- the Song of Dragonbane:
Once bathed in regal splendours, the castle stood in pride,
But now just lay abandoned, all cares and hopes denied.
No monks pray in the chapel, no criers mark the hours.
No merchants fill the market square, no archers man the towers.
Gone the lowly chambermaids, the deacons and the lords;
Gone, too, the maids-in-waiting and knights with shining swords.
Away have fled the armigers, the stewards and the squires;
The bailey stands unguarded, no pennants grace the spires.
The smithy’s forge knows not flame; the wellsprings all are dry;
No hearthfires fend December; no gardens greet July.
No torches brighten chambers, nor light forgotten halls;
Winds moan their hollow dirges past cracked and tumbled walls.
The emptiness resounding screams sadness all the more,
For the innocence of youth is now Misfortune’s whore.
Deep within the mould’ring keep, ‘midst the ruin and the dust,
Rests the blade of blackest lore, now cloaked in sanguine rust.
Once proudly borne in battle, this sword did glory gain,
Before men knew its secrets and named it Dragonbane.
Know this sword is more than steel, and wrought by more than fire.
Know, too, this sword is heartless, with death its lone desire.
Its soul arose and wakened from hauteur and from spite,
From magics gleaned from dragon’s blood, from ice, and winter night.
A maiden’s heart, a fallen tear, a warrior’s iron nerves --
Victims of the hell-forged blade to feed the curse it serves.
By this sword was Honor slain, then Faith and Gallantry;
And struck dead in the carnage, lay golden Chivalry.
So fled bold knights and heroes, far from the frightful spawn,
Seeking solace from the distance of elsewhen’s brighter dawn.
Though dream some fools and reavers, of power, wealth, and fame,
Not one dares venture northward, the blacksouled sword to claim,
For there within the castle walls, an old man struggles still
To break the spell of evil, his destiny to fill.
Within the hall of feasting, now open to the sky,
He stands in silent vigil, unmoved as time goes by.
He watches o’er the maiden, her lifeless form now bone,
Beside the sword so dreadful, upon the timeworn stone.
Days pass by and so, too, nights, and seasons become years;
He kneels, he whispers gently, and sheds his somber tears.
His breath is short and labored, his sinews stiff and weak;
His bones are old and brittle, mere memories of his peak.
Against the Curse alone he stands, beneath grey-shrouded skies,
And wields his sword of promise, of hope, and summer sighs.
His armor is his courage, his shield his heart of glass,
Yet though he battles bravely, he cannot change his past.
Some say on lonely winter nights, when all is cold and clear,
The warrior, old and feeble, sobs prayers through sorrow’s tears,
And when perchance he listens, he hears a dragon’s roar --
From long ago it echoes to touch his heart once more.
It brings him grief and sorrow, and heralds fitful sleep,
With dreams of errant ventures and of this woeful keep:
He finds himself much younger, much stronger, yet unwise,
And cannot end the nightmare, no matter how he tries.
He dreams of knighthood questing, and vanquishing a foe.
He dreams of knighthood dying that night so long ago.
In slumber’s dark embracing, he journeys back those years
To fight again the dragon, to shed again his tears.
He feels his sword strike cleanly; he hears her dying breath;
He sees the truth now clearly: ‘twas he who welcomed death.
He holds again the maiden, and brushes back her hair,
Again he begs the angels her life to somehow spare.
Then from the dream he wakens, and stares across the room;
There he sees no miracle to free him from this doom.
Within her cave of crystal, her lair of evergleams,
Nevermore will dragon sleep -- his sundered spirit screams:
“Weep not, O fair young maidens, shed not your tears in vain.
Pity not this tortured soul who wielded Dragonbane...”
James K Bowers
Summer 1994
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This has always been a favorite of mine, and considering that Henley died at my age, it serves as a constant reminder that I have yet to pen something half as profound.
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
—William Ernest Henley
(Aug 23 1849 – Jul 11 1903)
Note: The title is Latin for "unconquered".
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