Long Earls Poems
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The Wanderer, Part II
Awakening, the friendless man confronts the murky waves,
the seabirds bathing, broadening out their feathers,
the hoar-frost, harrowing hail & snow eternally falling…
Then his heart’s wounds seem all the heavier for the loss of his beloved lord.
Thus his sorrow is renewed,
remembrance of his lost kinsmen troubles his mind,
& he greets their ghosts with exclamations of joy, but they merely swim away.
The floating ones never tarry.
Thus care is renewed for the one whose weary spirit rides the waves.
Therefore I cannot think why, surveying this world,
my mind should not contemplate its darkness.
When I consider the lives of earls & their retainers,
how at a stroke they departed their halls, those mood-proud thanes!,
then I see how this middle-earth fails & falls, day after day…
Therefore no man becomes wise without his share of winters.
A wise man must be patient,
not hot-hearted, nor over-eager to speak,
nor weak-willed in battles & yet not reckless,
not unwitting nor wanting in forethought,
nor too greedy for gold & goods,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
nor too hot, nor too mild,
nor too eager to boast before he’s thought things through.
A wise man forbears boastmaking
until, stout-hearted, his mind sure & his will strong,
he can read the road where his travels & travails take him.
The wise man grasps how ghastly life will be
when all the world’s wealth becomes waste,
even as middle-earth already is, in so many places
where walls stand weather-beaten by the wind,
crusted with cold rime, ruined dwellings snowbound,
wine-halls crumbling, their dead lords deprived of joy,
the once-hale host all perished beyond the walls.
Some war took, carried them off from their courses;
a bird bore one across the salt sea;
another the gray wolf delivered to Death;
one a sallow-cheeked earl buried in a bleak barrow.
Thus mankind’s Maker laid waste to Middle Earth,
until the works of the giants stood idle,
all eerily silenced, the former joys of their halls.”
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, translation, Old English, wanderer, winter, ice, snow, frost, sea, ocean, seabirds, heart, heartbreak, loss, loneliness, alienation, sorrow, death, ghosts, dark, darkness, wise, wisdom, war, bird, birds, wolf, giants
'Twas a dark and stormy night! (OK - so I'm being a tad histrionic!)
The Earl of Pence was lounging by the fire sipping his gin and tonic.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared sending shivers down his spine.
Even his hound, Lord Percival, was so upset that he began to whine!
'Twas well-known thereabouts that phantoms haunted the earl's castle,
And on such frightful nights they were bound to cause a spooky hassle.
Nefarious deeds had occurred within Penceshire Castle walls in the past,
And were replayed in 'spirited' form leaving generations of earls aghast!
A shriek from the bowels of the castle sent the dog into howling fits,
And brought the earl bounding to his feet, scaring him out of his wits!
The blood-curdling screams were from a former Earl of Pence who in 1642,
Was hung by his thumbs in the dungeon for a fair maiden that he slew!
Suddenly, the ancient organ in the hall began playing eerie chords.
Heard on the floor above was rowdy dancing by ladies, knights and lords.
Ghastly emanations from the past paraded through the terrified earl's room,
Antecedents all, leering and grinning and predicting the anxious earl's doom!
Lord Percival sensing trouble long before, across the moat had bolted!
The storm subsided and the apparitions faded leaving the earl quite jolted!
He felt a bony hand upon his shoulder that took away his final breath.
'Twas his valet who offered a gin and tonic to the earl who now lay in death!
At age twenty I had made it to Earls Court.
The rented room was seedily solid
having been for decades
filled with wine and cheap sunlight.
Until then I had not read a thing
apart from: ‘The Ship’ by C.S. Forester
and ‘Arms and the Man’, by G. B. Shaw
both part of a school curriculum.
I liked Shaw for his wit and intelligence
No one told me then that he was, in fact,
a fascist of the worst kind,
I thought he was an erudite old Irishman
like my uncle Sean.
A pink girl with huge eye-glasses, moved in.
She was studying Geoffrey Chaucer
in the original middle-english.
I hadn't a clue.
I bought a book of poems by D.H. Lawrence.
I forget why, but I liked his name
and my uncle Sean often talked about his poetry.
Turns out Lawrence had written a pile of books also,
but back then I was just into his poems.
I read ‘Grapes’, and I read ‘Figs’.
I read ‘Medlars and Sorb-Apples’, I read ‘Peach’,
I read ‘Cypresses’.
Back then I don't think I had ever seen a cypress,
a ‘medlar’ or a ‘sorb apple.’
I read: Snake,
Baby Tortoise,
Turkey-Cock,
Kangaroo and many others.
A few years later I found out
that the poets that were considered
to be good poets, and the critics
who were thought to be good critics
didn't think much of his poems.
I tried reading the poems of the good poets,
but after a while I felt nauseous.
Then I discovered Dylan Thomas.
The pink girl did not understand his poetry,
neither did I much,
but I ate up his words like a starving man.
Turns out Dylan Thomas was a drunk
and a mean bastard,
just like my uncle Sean.
'Twas a dark and stormy night! (OK! So I'm being a tad histrionic!)
The Earl of Pence was lounging by the fire sipping his gin and tonic.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared sending shivers down his spine!
Even his hound, Lord Percival, was so upset that he began to whine!
'Twas well-known thereabouts that phantoms haunted the earl's castle,
And on such frightful nights they were bound to cause spooky hassle!
Nefarious deeds had occurred within Penceford Castle walls in the past,
And were replayed in 'spirited' form leaving generations of earls aghast!
A shriek from the bowels of the castle sent the dog into howling fits,
And brought the earl bounding to his feet, scaring him out of his wits!
The blood-curdling screams were from a former Earl of Pence who in 1642,
Was hung by this thumbs in the dungeon for a fair maiden that he slew!
Suddenly, the ancient organ in the hall began playing eerie chords.
Heard on the floor above was rowdy dancing by ladies, knights and lords!
Ghastly emanations from the past paraded through the terrified earl's room,
Antecedents all, leering and grinning predicting the anxious earl's doom!
Lord Percival sensing trouble long before for the door had bolted!
The storm subsided and the apparitions faded leaving the earl quite jolted!
The earl felt a bony hand upon his shoulder that took away his final breath.
'Twas his valet who offered a gin and tonic to the earl who now lay in death!
Entry for Tania Kitchin's "One Night in A Haunted Manor" Contest
(8 January 2019)
Five years of heartache, stale goodbyes
While families part, with tear-filled eyes
Recession rules, as work dries up
They leave to fill their working cup
As the second hand counts down the minute
Both love and loss appear infinite
Each day, each week, all times of year
We watch, as loved ones disappear
Naive of life, with bag in hand
Seeking dollar, pound, or krugerand
That's all she wrote, that's all that's in it
Another leaves, every sixth minute
For many, a room with a couch for a bed
A place to rest a weary head
Lifes lessons etched upon their face
Our countrys heritage, a sick disgrace
No flight of earls, just common folk
The golden egg has lost its yoke
Titanic shame, a guiltless owner
No cure awaits from a bloodless donor
Seventy seven and seventeen score
Left our fair isle, for a distant shore
In search of a living, destined to roam
Abandoned dreams of a life at home
The garden abounds flowers tumbling down
from the trellis roses sweetly scented
delicate pots strewn with colourful crown
groaning tables are with flowers crested
Plates filled with delicacies await
vol-au-vents and laden pastries sit
hungry mouths will eat and evaluate
leaving behind scattered crumbs of wit
Romances will flourish under the hot sun
dalliance or two with consequences
that appear in nine months to the ton
causing aslant glances at the lapses
Still the flowers bloom with vibrancy
colourful petals gleam all waxy
written 06/24/2014
contest Garden Party
footnote
Ton is another word for people from the nobility
ie lords, earls and ladies
The Wanderer, Part III
The wise man contemplates these ruins,
considers this dark life soberly,
remembers the blood spilled here
in multitudes of battles,
then says:
“Where is the horse now? Where, its riders?
Where, the givers of gifts & treasure, the gold-friend?
Where, the banquet-seats? Where, the mead-halls’ friendly uproars?
Gone, the bright cup! Gone, the mailed warrior!
Gone, the glory of princes! Time has slipped down
the night-dome, as if it never were!
Now all that remains is this wall, wondrous-high,
decorated with strange serpentine shapes,
these unreadable wormlike runes!
The strength of spears defeated the earls,
lances lusting for slaughter, for some glorious victory!
Now storms rage against these rock-cliffs,
as swirling snows & sleet entomb the earth,
while wild winter howls its wrath
as the pale night-shadow descends.
The frigid north sends hailstones to harry warriors.
Hardships & struggles beset the children of men.
The shape of fate is twisted under the heavens
as the Wyrdes decree.
Life is on loan, wealth transitory, friendships fleeting,
man himself fleeting, everything transitory,
& earth’s entire foundation stands empty.”
Thus spoke the wanderer, wise-hearted, as he sat apart in thought.
Good is the man who keeps his word to the end.
Nor should a man manifest his breast-pangs before he knows their cure,
how to accomplish the remedy with courage.
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, translation, Old English, wanderer, wise, wisdom, ruins, runes, war, battles, time, travel, travail, wall, winter, ice, snow, sleet, storms, night, shadows, life, friendships, loss, lost, sorrow, dark
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping hunger and abuse of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
Magna Carta
Charter that determined
the King does Not
have absolute power
for he may not reign at his own
self-centered whim, nae!
much of his authority must be
siphoned off
Relinquished to
Earls, Lords, Barons, Bishops
Knights no longer must blindly obey
The king and his subjects convened on the
dewy emerald green meadows
Of Runnymede
King John was compelled to sign the Magna Carta
With one voice they deemed of him a tyrant
At his nadir, weakest point
No longer an absolute Monarch
Enraged were the
English Kings
so, that after John
no member
of the royal family
has been
Christened John eversince
This shall not be forgotten
During
King
's r
n e
h i
o g
J n
The Sheriff of Nottingham’s Nemesis is
R O B I N H O O D :)
Crossroads to where life began
Fear of dark cold round me again
In the twilight before the morn
Scattered grass iced, forlorn
Silence in the air ash orangy dawn
Fire burnt out like clouds in storm
Life in vain for a purpose lost
Empty pockets, wealths secret cost
Deamon woman in dress and frock
Promising warmth and unto a lock
Of hair as token for a dark ratchet
And chain that binds me
binds me, Dimond in shame
A voice to horse a cock to crow
A secret pact
That turns flame into snow
Frosted word said in delight
Was only a death raven in deaths final fright
Cleansed faith leads fire into gold
Flaming far below too tired to behold
A stare too long at likenesses
of Medusa's state
my heart turned cold ash stone of hate
The bellowing witch apon the air
Blaspheming deamon dog's a-bark
Unfair
Reminiscent of the dead fell lark
Scolding sweat pearls,
Dressed by earls
Jokers queens and kings horse driven cart
fear fast wet waged tears acids came
Between life death shame pride greed and blame.