Julius Bailey's Blog - Posts Tagged "epic"
The Coldest Heart of All (Part 1)
Greetings, everyone.
So, those who know me (the number of which I hope is growing *ahem*) will know that I quite like good poetry. I am, of course, partial to the olden style of it, such things as the beauties scattered throughout the Lord of the Rings novels, some of the works of Robert Frost, and the Lays of Beleriand (a special favorite!). I am also partial to rhyming verse. I mean really; if one is going to work so hard at a language as complicated as English, one may as well exercise the full use of it. In the long labors of my own writing, and the numerous talks I've had with other writers and poets, I've come to realize that good rhyming verse, really good rhyming verse, is often much harder to produce than non-rhyming verse. In a way, you set bonds about the realm of your creativity, because you must establish a discernible flow and keep to it, you cannot continuously use the same ending words line after line, and what's more, it is often the case that the last word in a line that you really wish to jot down simply doesn't flow with the last word in the line above it! But in my humble opinion, there are few things as rewarding as sitting back and reading over a well crafted rhyming poem. It lifts the mind when read silently, and lightens the tongue when read aloud.
I have decided to share a rhyming poem of mine with you all today. I am going to split it into two parts (did I mention that I am also a fan of lengthy poems that tell stories? Epics, some call them, but I rarely use the term.). Unlike others I've shared in the past this one does have a title. Now, beware, it's a bit long, but I put a lot of work into it, and it rhymes! (How about that?) Hope you all enjoy.
The Coldest Heart of All
Hear now a tale of woe.
A story that a heart quite old did know
When she gave of her love long ago
On an endless night of moon-swathed
snow.
A house there was upon a hill,
Which sheltered a woman most
strangely ill
Who warmed by a fire of ice and snow
In a land that was, so long ago.
Enchantment she wove about her
domain
To fend off sunlight, wind and rain,
To stay the beasts, and to keep a chill
Within this house upon a hill.
A chill that suffered no warmth of
breath,
A chill that promised naught but death
To those shrouded beneath its folds. And
so,
We shall hear what tale from long ago.
Enchantment the more this woman had,
For though in mortal form she was clad
She ensnared age, the decay of years,
And locked it in a bottle of silver tears.
And though all seasons might come and
go
Neither dim nor failing durst her eyes
grow.
Neither bent of back nor gray of hair,
But tall and slender; cold and fair.
Fair as a hilltop crowned with rain;
Fair as white mist in a darkened plain;
Fair as a stream of calming flow,
But colder than the coldest night may
grow.
Now on a night she gathered food for
meat
She heard, as it were, the sound of
faltering feet
And, turning about, she beheld a form,
Stumbling upon her hill where was no
thing warm.
‘Twas a man, haggard, grim, and worn;
In his eyes a look most forlorn.
Scarce a moment later he staggered and
fell,
As though smitten by a sudden, crippling
spell.
Then she arose and went to his side.
‘How came ye here?’ she asked. ‘By tide
Of magic? Enchantment’s grace?
Whither came ye from your own place?’
In her words was neither anger nor
scorn,
But rather likened to a murmur borne
On a wind that drifts without a care.
A wind that warmth may never share.
His eyes uplifted. He beheld her face.
‘By magic?’ said he. ‘Enchantment’s
grace?
Nay. But cut off from my company have I
been,
By a storm that ravaged, but was not
seen.
Many days have I wondered, seeking aid,
Stumbling ‘neath the trees whose casting
shade
Has hemmed me in. My hope was lost
and I was ill,
Yet from afar I descried this house and
hill.
And with the last of my strength up I
strode,
Seeing no path or walking road.
And help, most truly, I would now ask of
thee,
For death has sought, and is seeking for
me.’
‘And death shall find you,’ she,
answering, said.
‘Even here, where thou layest thine
head.’
‘Those words are cruel. Cruel indeed.
To withhold help from one in need.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘to those who know
Whither to walk and where never to go.
For none venture here and none return,
Though for warmth and day they may
ever yearn.’
‘In truth I tell you,’ he bestirringly said,
‘That when first my eyes opened, I
thought myself dead.
For I looked on a sight of beauty
unbound,
A loveliness most profound.
But your heart is cold and without
regret.
This is not the aid I thought to have met.’
‘Perhaps, perchance, but your thoughts
are not mine.
Little good will it do thee to beg and
pine.’
‘A barter then, a covenant true,
An unfaltering oath shall I swear to you.’
Then reaching weakly to his breast,
As though it were some enfolding nest,
He drew out with care a band of gold
That flared to silver in his hold.
‘Lo! My greatest treasure ever won,
Gained in battle under scorching sun.
To thee I offer it in return
For the help I asked that you did spurn.’
As she looked upon his band of shifting
hue
The desire to possess it swiftly grew.
For many things could she do with silver-
gold.
‘If in truth you make me an offer so bold
Then enter now my delicate home.
Fear no longer in pain to roam.’
Into her abode she led him by hand,
Her eyes ever lighting upon his band,
And there she tended him in his pain,
She who had nigh afore been his bane.
She laid him upon a couch of cold,
But he cried: ‘Nay! Even now the hold
Of death draws nigh.
Do not chill my blood with beguiling ply.’
‘How then shall I warm you, o weakling
dire?’
‘Bestir a flame. Rouse a fire.’
At this bidding she drew swiftly back.
‘That alone of the arts I lack.’
‘I doubt not that such a thing would be
lost
To she who hems herself in with frost.
But I cannot weather such clinging
freeze.
I shall keep my band you think to seize
If you will not hearken to me in any wise.
I shall bear it beyond the boundless
skies.’
But lust overcame her wavering.
The lust for so small and precious a
thing.
And with commanding voice but head
bowed low
She bid her fire of ice and snow
Become a flame. And a reddened flame
indeed up-started,
And from it the chill swiftly departed.
His limbs were heated, his blood was
warmed.
But in her there arose and a-sudden
stormed
An agony burning, and with it a dread.
And, raising herself, the room she fled
And afterwards returned not, save to
visit his bed
To soothe his wounds and provide water
and bread.
Keep Strong!
So, those who know me (the number of which I hope is growing *ahem*) will know that I quite like good poetry. I am, of course, partial to the olden style of it, such things as the beauties scattered throughout the Lord of the Rings novels, some of the works of Robert Frost, and the Lays of Beleriand (a special favorite!). I am also partial to rhyming verse. I mean really; if one is going to work so hard at a language as complicated as English, one may as well exercise the full use of it. In the long labors of my own writing, and the numerous talks I've had with other writers and poets, I've come to realize that good rhyming verse, really good rhyming verse, is often much harder to produce than non-rhyming verse. In a way, you set bonds about the realm of your creativity, because you must establish a discernible flow and keep to it, you cannot continuously use the same ending words line after line, and what's more, it is often the case that the last word in a line that you really wish to jot down simply doesn't flow with the last word in the line above it! But in my humble opinion, there are few things as rewarding as sitting back and reading over a well crafted rhyming poem. It lifts the mind when read silently, and lightens the tongue when read aloud.
I have decided to share a rhyming poem of mine with you all today. I am going to split it into two parts (did I mention that I am also a fan of lengthy poems that tell stories? Epics, some call them, but I rarely use the term.). Unlike others I've shared in the past this one does have a title. Now, beware, it's a bit long, but I put a lot of work into it, and it rhymes! (How about that?) Hope you all enjoy.
The Coldest Heart of All
Hear now a tale of woe.
A story that a heart quite old did know
When she gave of her love long ago
On an endless night of moon-swathed
snow.
A house there was upon a hill,
Which sheltered a woman most
strangely ill
Who warmed by a fire of ice and snow
In a land that was, so long ago.
Enchantment she wove about her
domain
To fend off sunlight, wind and rain,
To stay the beasts, and to keep a chill
Within this house upon a hill.
A chill that suffered no warmth of
breath,
A chill that promised naught but death
To those shrouded beneath its folds. And
so,
We shall hear what tale from long ago.
Enchantment the more this woman had,
For though in mortal form she was clad
She ensnared age, the decay of years,
And locked it in a bottle of silver tears.
And though all seasons might come and
go
Neither dim nor failing durst her eyes
grow.
Neither bent of back nor gray of hair,
But tall and slender; cold and fair.
Fair as a hilltop crowned with rain;
Fair as white mist in a darkened plain;
Fair as a stream of calming flow,
But colder than the coldest night may
grow.
Now on a night she gathered food for
meat
She heard, as it were, the sound of
faltering feet
And, turning about, she beheld a form,
Stumbling upon her hill where was no
thing warm.
‘Twas a man, haggard, grim, and worn;
In his eyes a look most forlorn.
Scarce a moment later he staggered and
fell,
As though smitten by a sudden, crippling
spell.
Then she arose and went to his side.
‘How came ye here?’ she asked. ‘By tide
Of magic? Enchantment’s grace?
Whither came ye from your own place?’
In her words was neither anger nor
scorn,
But rather likened to a murmur borne
On a wind that drifts without a care.
A wind that warmth may never share.
His eyes uplifted. He beheld her face.
‘By magic?’ said he. ‘Enchantment’s
grace?
Nay. But cut off from my company have I
been,
By a storm that ravaged, but was not
seen.
Many days have I wondered, seeking aid,
Stumbling ‘neath the trees whose casting
shade
Has hemmed me in. My hope was lost
and I was ill,
Yet from afar I descried this house and
hill.
And with the last of my strength up I
strode,
Seeing no path or walking road.
And help, most truly, I would now ask of
thee,
For death has sought, and is seeking for
me.’
‘And death shall find you,’ she,
answering, said.
‘Even here, where thou layest thine
head.’
‘Those words are cruel. Cruel indeed.
To withhold help from one in need.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘to those who know
Whither to walk and where never to go.
For none venture here and none return,
Though for warmth and day they may
ever yearn.’
‘In truth I tell you,’ he bestirringly said,
‘That when first my eyes opened, I
thought myself dead.
For I looked on a sight of beauty
unbound,
A loveliness most profound.
But your heart is cold and without
regret.
This is not the aid I thought to have met.’
‘Perhaps, perchance, but your thoughts
are not mine.
Little good will it do thee to beg and
pine.’
‘A barter then, a covenant true,
An unfaltering oath shall I swear to you.’
Then reaching weakly to his breast,
As though it were some enfolding nest,
He drew out with care a band of gold
That flared to silver in his hold.
‘Lo! My greatest treasure ever won,
Gained in battle under scorching sun.
To thee I offer it in return
For the help I asked that you did spurn.’
As she looked upon his band of shifting
hue
The desire to possess it swiftly grew.
For many things could she do with silver-
gold.
‘If in truth you make me an offer so bold
Then enter now my delicate home.
Fear no longer in pain to roam.’
Into her abode she led him by hand,
Her eyes ever lighting upon his band,
And there she tended him in his pain,
She who had nigh afore been his bane.
She laid him upon a couch of cold,
But he cried: ‘Nay! Even now the hold
Of death draws nigh.
Do not chill my blood with beguiling ply.’
‘How then shall I warm you, o weakling
dire?’
‘Bestir a flame. Rouse a fire.’
At this bidding she drew swiftly back.
‘That alone of the arts I lack.’
‘I doubt not that such a thing would be
lost
To she who hems herself in with frost.
But I cannot weather such clinging
freeze.
I shall keep my band you think to seize
If you will not hearken to me in any wise.
I shall bear it beyond the boundless
skies.’
But lust overcame her wavering.
The lust for so small and precious a
thing.
And with commanding voice but head
bowed low
She bid her fire of ice and snow
Become a flame. And a reddened flame
indeed up-started,
And from it the chill swiftly departed.
His limbs were heated, his blood was
warmed.
But in her there arose and a-sudden
stormed
An agony burning, and with it a dread.
And, raising herself, the room she fled
And afterwards returned not, save to
visit his bed
To soothe his wounds and provide water
and bread.
Keep Strong!
