Long Fens Poems
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Part 1 of ?
Clippety, cloppety, clippety, cloppety
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
mounted for battle in all of their armor; they
rode off so gallantly through moors and fens.
How could they possibly know what awaited them?
Would it have mattered, or turned them around?
Six days out, there has been nary a sign of them,
and not a hint of a trail to be found.
Two hundred horses do not up and vanish, and
neither do two hundred knights and their squires.
Gaining the high ground, they scan the horizon, but
naught can be seen of a help signal fire.
Clearly, they passed through this meadow some days ago;
grass is all trampled and easy to read.
There, at the edge of the forest, the trail dries up.
Here, they make camp and start looking for leads.
Scouts have been sent out, but none are returning; it’s
harder to justify as the days pass.
Finally, they find a knight barely breathing; he’s
whimpering, muttering, eyes are like glass.
There at the campfire, they bind up his wounds and they
spoon him some broth and a shot of strong ale.
When he awakens, and once he stops screaming, he
gains his composure and tells them his tale.
—————
(To be continued)
Quatrains written as dactyls in 12/10/12/10 with xAxA rhyme:
3:3:3:3x, 3:3:3:1A, 3:3:3:3x, 3:3:3:1A
Wulf and Eadwacer
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game;
they'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
Wulf's on one island; we're on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens. (fastened=secured)
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
My heart pursued Wulf like a panting hound,
but whenever it rained—how I wept!—
the boldest cur grasped me in his paws:
good feelings for him, but for me loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your seldom-comings
have left me famished, deprived of real meat.
Have you heard, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods!
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
Hank was a hard workin' cowpoke who really earned his meager pay.
He rode his ass Old Red from early dawn 'til at night he hit the hay,
Fixin' fences, ropin' steers and brandin' dogies in the old corral,
But he had an odd addiction that gnawed on his pard's morale!
He was a happy yodler which is alright fer a wrangler I suppose,
But his irritatin' warblin' caused him to nearly come to blows!
At night in the bunkhouse he would even yodel in his sleep,
Addin' to the din of his pals who were known fer snorin' deep!
His yodelin' caused cattle to stampede and hosses to buck and neigh.
Caused chickens to cease layin' aigs and cantankerous mules to bray!
Porkers squealed in their sty and the hounds barked and howled,
His comrades raged and cussed and the cats all hissed and yowled!
Even rattlesnakes were flustered and slithered to hide in dens,
And bands of coyotes skulked to seek cover in the nearby fens.
Frenzied birds vacated their cozy nests and fled to distant climes,
And Cookie got upset since the guys couldn't hear his supper chimes!
The grizzled old ranch boss called Hank aside fer a serious session,
Sayin', "Son, you're creatin' havoc 'round hyar with yer damn obsession!
Take yer ass and yodler to swoon the gals at the Dry Gulch Saloon,
'Cause if'n you keep it up 'round hyar, you'll hit the road and soon!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
start
The morning sun hidden behind dark clouds
Everything below covered like a shroud
The air is humid, strong winds blowing from the west
These ominous signs put everyone’s nerves to test.
Streaks of lightening flashed across the sky
Sounds of thunder made the children cry
The little ones clung to their mothers with fear
For them, poor souls, there was nothing to cheer.
Then it came with a bang, the deluge
Forcing everyone out to take refuge
Under a tree, inside a shop or any shelter
Forgetting everything and running helter-skelter.
Rain fell in sheets lashing the window pane
Water gushed down the roof-tops into the drain
Poodles of water collected everywhere
Children splashed around, such opportunities are rare.
The countryside looked like a cluster of fens
A bedraggled cockerel marshaled his hens
“Scratch for worms, you lazy bones,
Before the water evaporates leaving only stones”.
A bullfrog croaked from the muddy pool
Followed the orchestra from his music school
In the distance a peacock decided it’s time to dance
And impress the peahen with his romantic stance.
A roadside vendor sold cups of hot tea
People flocked to his stall to share it for a fee
They were caught unawares in the incessant rain
Their unsavory plight was the tea vendor’s gain.
The rain stopped and watery sunlight peeped again
Children rushed out, parents’ restraining effort in vain
They splashed in the muddy water getting wet
To them, catching cold was not at all a threat.
end
Oh Lord they come again in brilliant hue
cold ghosts so long thought dead beneath the snow
arise, in flaunting presence overdue
upon the thatch brown bed - clear hoar frost glow
clings to the softening edge of winter’s grip
an echoed crack of ice its passing blow
in fated end to her long cyclic trip
succumbing to the whims of passing winds
rippling thru tall Maples slow sap drip
wet rabbits skirt the edges of the fens
to dine upon first buds of greening shoots
plump robins build their nests in silent glens
watched by the moon the mating owl hoots
as nature hits default and spring reboots
©4/29/2019
Quirky Tercets Poetry Contest
Nina Parmenter sponsor
Helen's brick house
was built by her grandpa James
with a specific design in mind:
the front black cross-windows
riminded one of Christ's sorrows;
when the off-white roll shades opened
the neighboors saw Helen wearing a rosette
on her blouse she herself had created
on a foot paddle sewing machine...
copying it off a Cosmopolitan magazine.
The porch's wood was cracked and faded
not a perfect dispay for begonias,
amaryllis, hydrangeas and roses
that Helen watered on drought days
to perserve them, never to be whitered
by a lack of rain when the grass yellowed.
A staircase led to her bedroom kind of mystique,
the queen bed was covered with macabre art linen sheets
and had a wrought-iron bedframe almost an antique;
often Helen heard whipers of folks who had lived
there, and she wondered if it was her imagination or dread:
" Dead people are harmelss, only living people harm others! "
No garden in that neighbohood was prittier than hers,
sweet Alyssum, purple Ageratum, white Alemone growing
under Japanese maples and strawberry trees so tempting
made it so harmonious and so lively that amazed others;
would it been complete without the merry warblings
of the canaries,of the mockingbirds and of the wrens?
The roof shingles needed replacement, they often fell down on piled logs,
and Helen stocked them up neately in a corner to save money later on;
her income was kind of low and expensive utility bills kept on coming in,
the pension her husband left her was spent on food, not on luxury goods.
When rain fell the front lawn and garden became fens able to transform
their loveliness, hundreds of leaves were left by the last tropical storm;
and Helen was saddened staring at the devastation of the lovely grass,
only the day before she got rid of those ugly weeds hiding the wild violets
and the crimson clove along the fence where birds built their nests...
I can imagine how helpless she felt seeing such devastation in minutes!
The faded timber door fought severe winters and they lasted night-long,
spring brought pleasant days, it stood open to greet their fragrance;
no thief invaded a house protected by good spirits and benevolence,
God was there and that made Helen feel at home where she belonged.
Wordlessly I rise to answer a long-ago call.
I admire the rainbow but I say nothing at all.
But I notice.
The exhausted frown that she tried to hide.
All the painful truths that she openly denies.
I notice.
The songs that she plays on the radio and sings to on a summer day.
The laughter of the people around us while we dance and play.
I notice.
The wind blowing through her hair while she stares into the night sky.
The sound of the river rapids close to her feet while she enjoys a pie.
I notice.
Whenever their lilting voice falters; whenever they dare to speak aloud.
Their courage on the stage where they dared to sing in front of a crowd.
I notice.
The friends who tell him they care for him but don't actually show it.
The family that comforts and consoles him in those required moments.
I notice.
The cobblestones along the streets, light posts, trees and gardens.
All the chirping birds and fluttering butterflies near the closest fens.
I notice.
It doesn't matter if I am actually here
nor there -- even if it feels like I'm everywhere.
I will always notice.
Snipe and Curlew are skating on the mist
they sing of the water
that sky-water which sways to their songs.
Flat is this land with no coastal margins,
here I am the peak of a mountain
my coated form
darkly winged with strange desires,
an ardor compelled to rain down
upon these wandering streams,
to babble and pour in the Wash is my pleasure.
Osprey skim between the worlds
as they plow the brume and drizzle.
Silver trout dangle in the air
hooked by the wringing and the wet,
the taloned and the dunking beak.
You gandering Grebs where are you gone?
O yes, you are swimming a soaking river
betwixt the two poles of this sodden world,
you wade and paddle, dip with a breezy ease -
with dauntless sweeps you divide the oceans.
Wulf and Eadwacer
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 960 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game;
they'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
Wulf's on one island; we're on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
My heart pursued Wulf like a panting hound,
but whenever it rained—how I wept!—
the boldest cur grasped me in its paws:
good feelings for him, but for me loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your seldom-comings
have left me famished, deprived of real meat.
Have you heard, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods!
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, Old English, England, translation, scop, female, women, rape, raping, sex, sexual abuse, incest, lament, complaint, tribalism, tribe, clan, pack, chauvinism, war, wolf, wolves, dog, dogs, hound, hounds, cur, curs, whelp, baby, offspring, island, animal, longing, lust, passion, violence