Arthurian Poems

At Tintagel by Michael R. Burch That night, at Tintagel, there was darkness such as man had never seen... darkness and treachery, and the unholy thundering of the sea... In his arms, who is to say how much she knew? And if he whispered her name... "Ygraine" could she tell above the howling wind and rain? Could she tell, or did she care, by the length of his hair or the heat of his flesh, ... that her faceless companion was Uther, the dragon, and Gorlois lay dead? Morgause's Song by Michael R. Burch Before he was my brother, he was my lover, though certainly not the best. I found no joy in that addled boy, nor he at my breast. Why him? Why him? The years grow dim. Now it's harder and harder to say... Perhaps girls and boys are the god's toys when the skies are gray. Isolde’s Song by Michael R. Burch Through our long years of dreaming to be one we grew toward an enigmatic light that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun? We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite the lack of all sensation—all but one: we felt the night’s deep chill, the air so bright at dawn we quivered limply, overcome. To touch was all we knew, and how to bask. We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt spring’s urgency, midsummer’s heat, fall’s lash, wild winter’s ice and thaw and fervent melt. We felt returning light and could not ask its meaning, or if something was withheld more glorious. To touch seemed life’s great task. At last the petal of me learned: unfold and you were there, surrounding me. We touched. The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched, and learned to cling and, finally, to hold. Pellinore's Fancy by Michael R. Burch What do you do when your wife is a nag and has sworn you to hunt neither fish, fowl, nor stag? When the land is at peace, but at home you have none, Is that, perchance, when... the Questing Beasts run? The Last Enchantment by Michael R. Burch Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend, how time has thinned your ragged mane and pinched your features; still you seem though, much, much changed—somehow unchanged. Your sword hand is, as ever, ready, although the time for swords has passed. Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady meeting mine... you must not ask. The time is not, nor ever shall be. Merlyn's words were only words; and now his last enchantment wanes, and we must put aside our swords... Midsummer-Eve by Michael R. Burch In the ruins of the dreams and the schemes of men; when the moon begets the tide and the wide sea sighs; when a star appears in heaven and the raven cries; we will dance and we will revel in the devil's fen... if nevermore again. The Pictish Faeries by Michael R. Burch Smaller and darker than their closest kin, the faeries learned only too well never to dwell close to the villages of larger men. Only to dance in the starlight when the moon was full and men were afraid. Only to worship in the farthest glade, ever heeding the raven and the gull. The Kiss of Ceridwen by Michael R. Burch The kiss of Ceridwen I have felt upon my brow, and the past and the future have appeared, as though a vapor, mingling with the here and now. And Morrigan, the Raven, the messenger, has come, to tell me that the gods, unsung, will not last long when the druids' harps grow dumb. The Wild Hunt by Michael R. Burch Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call; and the others, laughing, go dashing by. They only appear when the moon is full: Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood, and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales, Gawain and Owain and the hearty men who live on in many minstrels’ tales. They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor, or Torc Triath, the fabled boar, or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth, the other mighty boars of myth. They appear, sometimes, on Halloween to chase the moon across the green, then fade into the shadowed hills where memory alone prevails. Northern Flight: Lancelot’s Last Love Letter to Guinevere by Michael R. Burch "Get thee to a nunnery ..." Now that the days have lengthened, I assume the shadows also lengthen where you pause to watch the sun and comprehend its laws, or just to shiver in the deepening gloom. But nothing in your antiquarian eyes nor anything beyond your failing vision repeals the night. Religion’s circumcision has left us worlds apart, but who’s more wise? I think I know you better now than then— and love you all the more, because you are . . . so distant. I can love you from afar, forgiving your flight north, far from brute men, because your fear’s well-founded: God, forbid, was bound to fail you here, as mortals did. Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. Truces by Michael R. Burch Artur took Cabal, his hound, and Carwennan, his knife, and his sword forged by Wayland and Merlyn, his falcon, and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife, he strode to the Table Rounde. “Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad, and here is Wygar that I wear, and ready for war, an oath I foreswore to fight for all that is righteous and fair from Wales to the towers of Gilead.” But none could be found to contest him, for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth, so he hastened back home, for to rest him, till his wife bade him, “Thatch up the roof!” Small Tales by Michael R. Burch When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr were but scrawny lads they had many a boozy adventure in the still glades of Gwynedd. When the sun beat down like an oven upon the kiln-hot hills and the scorched shores of Carmarthen, they went searching and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr. They fought a day and a night with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten), rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer and told quite a talltale or two, till thems wasn’t so shore which’un’s tails wus true. And these have been passed down to me, and to you.