Saturday, August 27, 2011

Warrior Poetry

Okay, now for something absolutely, totally, completely freaking altogether different, old girl.

As you may or may not have guessed, I like to play with words.  I like laying them down and making them flow off the page like cool water whispering down a mountain creek.  I like to twist them around, rearranged them in ways that startle the reader.  I like verbal portraits.  Words painting pictures in the mind--creating vivid images that are crystal clear to the beholder.

And.  I like to inspire.  A bit egotistical of me to admit; I know.  But I firmly believe words can inspire.  Can change lives.  Can fire the imagination.  Can open up vistas never before glimpsed--or at least, rarely glimpsed--by the majority of people.  Make people feel deep, raw emotion.

Okay, this is a long preamble to today's offering.  But needed.

I write something  Warrior Poetry.   Not quite poetry--not quite narrative fiction.  An odd squishing together of both.  Think of Homer's Illiad.  A narrative poem telling an action-packed recounting of Greeks and their gods against the Trojans and their gods in a war that lasted for years.  I'm trying to mimic that style. 

So, with little else to say, I offer this piece to you for your consideration.  Hope you like it.

Champion Reluctant

Old wounds ache; muscles hard from years

of dangerous toil.

Temples gray yet bright the dark eyes


of warrior’s youth.

Come he has, this man of granite, to bathe

in paradise green. With

Palm trees whispering in evening’s alluring

chants—of aromas


building dreams of bounteous panoramas.

Lounge he lay in pools of waters cool

As children many laugh and play in gardens


Shed he did, bronze grieves from old shins scarred

Set to one side he wished shield ancient so badly marred.

Of blood crimson spilled, of bronze trumpets blare, of the martial

tread of men marching to battle

No longer he wished to dwell.

No, Pilgrim; time has come

for warrior old to set aside his youth

and discard deadly skills honed from

countless duels—to dream

No more of pennants snapping rudely in morning dews.

Of arrogant kings of old and their bloody fools.

No longer wished he to grip the hammered blade darkened and honed;

Blade so sharp, its thirst grimly unquenchable;

forever eager to sever flesh and bone.

Gently he sat bronze helm with red horse hair plume

On table near to remind him many of encounters dear with his old friend

All mortals so chillingly fear.

Age, warrior: age is the enemy unrelenting,

a thief sneaking who saps the strength so fleeting.

Memories horrible; of screams in the night of the dying,

Of fires raging, famished and thirsty for destruction sure.

Of men coated in crimson sheen, severed heads hell high in triumph pure.

Aye, Pilgrim

Age and memories--foes no warrior mortal equal to the task

to defeat in their lives limited.

The time comes for shield and blade to be discarded: the

helm gleaming and horse haired plume waving

in morning's bright light

To be set aside and allowed for dust to gather.

Youth, in his rude and arrogant grandeur, has fled the warrior's heart

leaving behind

Only the scarred, harden eyes of experience terrible:

The heart of an old warrior too bitter

to feel the gentle touch of a passionate soul.

Yet the Mistress Cruel named Destiny

Will relent not.

She calls her siren's song to ancient warrior bold,

Forces upon the Dreamer of Chaos battles bloody to be told.

In the quiet of the pool's soothing waters come the screams

of the frail.

Comes the pleas for succor from those who wish to rein upon

the heads of the weak and innocent

horrible Death and pain unwarranted.

Rise he does this ancient dealer of death;

Rise from the waters cool like the God of War he had been for years untold.

Dons he does his bronze grieves. Over his head he

lowers battered bronze helm with its rudely brilliant red

horse hair plume.

With hands still strong and willing he grips round bronze shield

and reaches for the dark and grim blade, his terrible friend,

who knows no limits to its terrible fury.

Go, warrior: fight your battles terrible.

Go, knowing that someone must stand; someone must

push back the terrors that fills the hearts

of the many.

A battle continuous

A battle that must be fought

Yet knowing that no one will be victorious.

Go, warrior: and may the gods smile upon your fearless spirit for eternity.

1 comment:

  1. Wonderful! I really enjoyed that B.r.! I love that style of writing and it makes we feel as though I'm sitting on grassy bank -- the river water slapping at my feet. Through the waving trees bolts of sunlight tease my imagination on the tablet that lays before...

    Once I wrote this as I was waiting for the morning to dawn because I was about to marry my husband in a cow pasture at sunrise, overlooking the Olympic mountains (31 years ago):

    The Daisies Dew - by Jane L. Fitzpatick

    Hark - what dreams to my eyes appear,
    As dancing wings greet skies so clear.

    Thou rays of sunlight, join my steps,
    And mist flows up from every depth.

    Make haste, my love, and race the dawn,
    And plant your kiss, my lips upon.

    Thou moon beams come to meet my rays,
    And on our window sills they play.

    Wispy leaves caress our frames,
    And we are taken through the rains.

    To castles in the foggy glen,
    Where dreams are made to unending ends.

    Alas, my eyes drift, weary now,
    Hurry lad, my lids do bow.

    Ah, yes, you there, with purest love,
    Chasing rainbows from above.

    My gallant prince on your steed of white,
    Carry your lady to the questing light.

    God's mirror reflects, I stand beside,
    An image of the emerald bride.

    Awake -- awake, the day has dawned,
    We float amoung the grass, the pond.

    We frolic through this birth, so new,
    Cradled by the daisies dew.