Ars Poetica
“To be or not to be”
“Double, Double, toil and trouble”
The prophecy of a king,
Name’s so cool,
Power-mad
And a prince plotting revenge
Poisoned blades included
The mournful story of
star-crossed lovers, and the man who
coined the phrase,
“Nevermore;” A raven that speaks
Insanity will ensue; always will
Just look at the poet
Mr. Poe, we’re watchin’ you
Man’s incestual
Weird, gross, I know, but true
So true
Sonnets to science, villanelles to death, and
Sestinas to Portuguese plotting penguins
Insanity,
Its reason, its result
TUEZ!!!!!
Maybe all poetry is insane
Do you have to be insane to write it?
Ha! You do!
Or so I think; You have to be insane enough
to know how to mix, mince, mash words
until its sounds beautiful
Weird but true
Schizophrenia, gotta be that too…
Just a bit, not much at all
What am I talking about?
Ars Poetica
The Art of Poetry
Yes, you skeptics, there is such a thing
Poetry’s contagious, I think
Don’t you?
Monday, October 12, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
A Call to War
1
A Call to War
The horse’s hooves pounded across the land. Beating rhythmically they stamped out a violent cadence across the Pfallian Landscape. The rider never paused to look at the rolling meadows filled with shepherds and flocks. Nor did he glance to the side to observe the brooks that babbled under the bridges he crossed. The forests flew by in a memory of dancing shadows, and it wasn’t until he saw the setting sun sinking below the horizon did he pull his mount to a halt. He was on the apex of a small hill, a small valley sprawled out before him. His horse continued to canter, lifting impatient hooves that itched to keep running. The rider however seemed calm. He sat erect in the saddle, and despite the movements of his steed his eyes remained fixed on the valley.
In the very center of the valley, outlined by the sinking sun sat a castle. Noble and unmoving it dominated over the land, its large shadow covering the land with buttress, ramparts, towers, and pennants. The land around the castle was speckled with villages, and farmhouses. Freshly plowed fields lay with their bosoms open, ready to accept seeds from the peasant’s hand. Behind the castle stretched a large lake. It shone like a well polished golden platter in the evening light, and if the rider were to squint his eyes he would barely be able to make out the faint shadows of the fishing boats. In the few seconds that he sat there the rider let all the joys, fears, hopes, and agitations of home sink in. Then with a quick glance in his saddle bag to assure that they still carried their burdens he kicked his horse back into a gallop and rode down the hill.
It was past sunset when the hooves of the rider’s mount first echoed off the courtyard cobblestones. On any other night such an act would’ve immediately roused the guard and torches would’ve been lit as the castle’s sleeping inhabitants awoke. Tonight however the castle was already teeming with life. Torches shone from nearly every window, and at least a dozen horses stood with their masters in the courtyard. A few frenzied stable hands were desperately pitching straw into empty stables, as other brushed down even more horses, that were tied to a post in a far corner.
“Boy!” shouted the rider to a passing child with a pitchfork in his hand. The boy paused and turned to the voice that’d called him. He looked scarcely older than twelve, and brown mousy hair hung down over his eyes. The boy was skinnier than a stalk of corn, and his head barely reached the rider’s saddle, but even with his small stature he stood erect and looked the rider in the eye.
“Yes?” the boys voice was still high pitched.
“Boy. Fetch the stable master. I need someone to take Felix here immedietly.” The rider patted the neck of his horse and then in one fluid motion dismounted to the ground. The boy stood unmoved. “Didn’t I tell you to fetch the stable master Boy? Go now, and be quick about it.”
“Not to be rude sir, but the stable master is passed out on that cart over there. He started drinking the moment the first of the Princes arrived, and hasn’t moved since the last time the bells rang.” The boys grubby finger indicated a pair of feet that protruded from under a pile of hay.
“Where are the stable hands then?” inquired the rider.
“All around you sir. And not to be rude, but I don’t think they’ll have much time for you.” Looking around the rider could see that the boy was right. Everyone was occupied with some task or another, and no one had even bothered to look twice at the new arrival. Biting his lip in anticipation the rider thought it over quickly before asking.
“Boy, can you handle a horse? He needs water, some straw to lie in, a good brushing, and some fresh oats. Can you do that, and find him a place to rest?”
“Yes sir. I do suppose that I could do that.” Answered the boy. The rider was hesitant to hand his horse over to a complete stranger, but he didn’t have time to consider it. Fishing a large scroll out of his saddle bags he handed the reins over to the boy.
“His name is Fenix and if he doesn’t like you he’ll be inclined to bite. So take good care of him. Also don’t bother trying to ride him, he’ll crush your skull in before you could get one foot in the stirrup.” The boy nodded and took the reins, and began leading the horse away.
The rider didn’t spare a moment in finding the door, and after asking a few scullery maids for directions made his way to the heart of the castle; The Prince’s Courtroom.
The Prince’s Courtroom at its simplest was a long narrow hall with vaulted ceilings. Pillars lined either side of a long red carpet that flowed from the door all the way to a large black throne on the other side. At its most complex however it was the nexus for politics, war, art, and anything deemed important for the land of Pfallia. Tonight every corner was bathed in golden light, and slippered as well as armored feet filled the floor. Nobles, Generals and Servants alike crowded on either side of the hall, leaving the red carpet open so that new arrivals could make their way directly to the throne. The air buzzed with an electric charge of whispers, rumors, and glances, all of which were suppressed under the declaring voice of another messenger who stood before Prince Richard and read the scroll he held in his hands.
Prince Richard sat on his throne with his chin cupped in his hand. His brow was furrowed, and his hand anxiously stroked at his speckled beard. The worry emanated from his face, but even in this less than perfect state he still radiated power and authority, and all of his focus hung on the messenger’s words.
“… even if we lack your support First Prince Richard, Lord of Pfallia. We will shall proceed to act as we’ve declared. The death of his Nobleness on high King Erock shall not go unavenged, and his rightful heir will be placed on the throne. If you seek to aid us we shall await your presence and your men at the fields of Ehre in two weeks time. Do not spurn your friends, nor parley with your enemies. The honored Duke Wolfers of Rindland.”
As the messenger’s last word echoed off the walls he bowed before the Prince, and said in a voice filled with humility. “When my Prince wishes I shall await your response to my Lord.” and with that he turned and faded into the crowd.
The rider, who had during this time had remained standing next to the door, made his way down the aisle, and placing one knee to the ground bowed before the Prince. “I bring a message for the Prince of Pfallia.”
Prince Richard sat upright on his throne and peered at the new arrival. “I am the Prince of Pfallia, and who are you?”
“A simple man.” answered the rider without lifting his head.
“That I can see. Where are your trappings messenger? Where are your Nobleman’s colors, and why do you lack a coat of arms on your breast?”
“I’m not a messenger My Lord.” said the rider.
“Do you not bring me a message?” asked Prince Richard his voice straining with irritation.
“Well… Yes but…”
“Then by bringing the message you have become the messenger despite how stupid you may be. It’s been a long day, and my wives await me. Out with it fast and I’ll excuse your ignorance. Stand up.”
The rider followed the Prince’s command, and holding the scroll out in front of him he unrolled it and read:
To Prince Richard of Pfallia. Do not listen to the lies of the Haxens. They do not seek peace, nor do they seek what’s rightfully theirs. Third Prince Daniel of Haxen is already on the move. His troops are lining the borders of my land and yours as we speak. They shall be here within three weeks times and we cannot hold them. My spies number his forces in the thousands, and without your steady sword we shall fall. I’ve reason to suspect he’s had a hand in the death of His Nobleness King Errock, and that he wishes to take the crown by force. He has gathered many allies, and the hour of our sunset is near. Gather your forces, and stand with us through the night of war my ally, friend, and brother. Meet us at Dolran’s Keep before the fields of Ehre in two weeks time. There we shall make our stand.
Second Prince Jared of Nodsten.
The courtroom stood in utter silence, as the rider’s last words were spoken. All eyes grasped onto Prince Richard as he mulled the words over in his head. His face grew from concern, to worry, and then to rage. Each step creasing the skin on his forehead more and more as his skin began to burn red with anger. Standing up he declared in his deep bass voice “The King is dead, and lesser men seek his place. Let the trumpets be sounded from every tower in the land. Let the men assemble. We have been called to War.” The crowd erupted in cheers.
A Call to War
The horse’s hooves pounded across the land. Beating rhythmically they stamped out a violent cadence across the Pfallian Landscape. The rider never paused to look at the rolling meadows filled with shepherds and flocks. Nor did he glance to the side to observe the brooks that babbled under the bridges he crossed. The forests flew by in a memory of dancing shadows, and it wasn’t until he saw the setting sun sinking below the horizon did he pull his mount to a halt. He was on the apex of a small hill, a small valley sprawled out before him. His horse continued to canter, lifting impatient hooves that itched to keep running. The rider however seemed calm. He sat erect in the saddle, and despite the movements of his steed his eyes remained fixed on the valley.
In the very center of the valley, outlined by the sinking sun sat a castle. Noble and unmoving it dominated over the land, its large shadow covering the land with buttress, ramparts, towers, and pennants. The land around the castle was speckled with villages, and farmhouses. Freshly plowed fields lay with their bosoms open, ready to accept seeds from the peasant’s hand. Behind the castle stretched a large lake. It shone like a well polished golden platter in the evening light, and if the rider were to squint his eyes he would barely be able to make out the faint shadows of the fishing boats. In the few seconds that he sat there the rider let all the joys, fears, hopes, and agitations of home sink in. Then with a quick glance in his saddle bag to assure that they still carried their burdens he kicked his horse back into a gallop and rode down the hill.
It was past sunset when the hooves of the rider’s mount first echoed off the courtyard cobblestones. On any other night such an act would’ve immediately roused the guard and torches would’ve been lit as the castle’s sleeping inhabitants awoke. Tonight however the castle was already teeming with life. Torches shone from nearly every window, and at least a dozen horses stood with their masters in the courtyard. A few frenzied stable hands were desperately pitching straw into empty stables, as other brushed down even more horses, that were tied to a post in a far corner.
“Boy!” shouted the rider to a passing child with a pitchfork in his hand. The boy paused and turned to the voice that’d called him. He looked scarcely older than twelve, and brown mousy hair hung down over his eyes. The boy was skinnier than a stalk of corn, and his head barely reached the rider’s saddle, but even with his small stature he stood erect and looked the rider in the eye.
“Yes?” the boys voice was still high pitched.
“Boy. Fetch the stable master. I need someone to take Felix here immedietly.” The rider patted the neck of his horse and then in one fluid motion dismounted to the ground. The boy stood unmoved. “Didn’t I tell you to fetch the stable master Boy? Go now, and be quick about it.”
“Not to be rude sir, but the stable master is passed out on that cart over there. He started drinking the moment the first of the Princes arrived, and hasn’t moved since the last time the bells rang.” The boys grubby finger indicated a pair of feet that protruded from under a pile of hay.
“Where are the stable hands then?” inquired the rider.
“All around you sir. And not to be rude, but I don’t think they’ll have much time for you.” Looking around the rider could see that the boy was right. Everyone was occupied with some task or another, and no one had even bothered to look twice at the new arrival. Biting his lip in anticipation the rider thought it over quickly before asking.
“Boy, can you handle a horse? He needs water, some straw to lie in, a good brushing, and some fresh oats. Can you do that, and find him a place to rest?”
“Yes sir. I do suppose that I could do that.” Answered the boy. The rider was hesitant to hand his horse over to a complete stranger, but he didn’t have time to consider it. Fishing a large scroll out of his saddle bags he handed the reins over to the boy.
“His name is Fenix and if he doesn’t like you he’ll be inclined to bite. So take good care of him. Also don’t bother trying to ride him, he’ll crush your skull in before you could get one foot in the stirrup.” The boy nodded and took the reins, and began leading the horse away.
The rider didn’t spare a moment in finding the door, and after asking a few scullery maids for directions made his way to the heart of the castle; The Prince’s Courtroom.
The Prince’s Courtroom at its simplest was a long narrow hall with vaulted ceilings. Pillars lined either side of a long red carpet that flowed from the door all the way to a large black throne on the other side. At its most complex however it was the nexus for politics, war, art, and anything deemed important for the land of Pfallia. Tonight every corner was bathed in golden light, and slippered as well as armored feet filled the floor. Nobles, Generals and Servants alike crowded on either side of the hall, leaving the red carpet open so that new arrivals could make their way directly to the throne. The air buzzed with an electric charge of whispers, rumors, and glances, all of which were suppressed under the declaring voice of another messenger who stood before Prince Richard and read the scroll he held in his hands.
Prince Richard sat on his throne with his chin cupped in his hand. His brow was furrowed, and his hand anxiously stroked at his speckled beard. The worry emanated from his face, but even in this less than perfect state he still radiated power and authority, and all of his focus hung on the messenger’s words.
“… even if we lack your support First Prince Richard, Lord of Pfallia. We will shall proceed to act as we’ve declared. The death of his Nobleness on high King Erock shall not go unavenged, and his rightful heir will be placed on the throne. If you seek to aid us we shall await your presence and your men at the fields of Ehre in two weeks time. Do not spurn your friends, nor parley with your enemies. The honored Duke Wolfers of Rindland.”
As the messenger’s last word echoed off the walls he bowed before the Prince, and said in a voice filled with humility. “When my Prince wishes I shall await your response to my Lord.” and with that he turned and faded into the crowd.
The rider, who had during this time had remained standing next to the door, made his way down the aisle, and placing one knee to the ground bowed before the Prince. “I bring a message for the Prince of Pfallia.”
Prince Richard sat upright on his throne and peered at the new arrival. “I am the Prince of Pfallia, and who are you?”
“A simple man.” answered the rider without lifting his head.
“That I can see. Where are your trappings messenger? Where are your Nobleman’s colors, and why do you lack a coat of arms on your breast?”
“I’m not a messenger My Lord.” said the rider.
“Do you not bring me a message?” asked Prince Richard his voice straining with irritation.
“Well… Yes but…”
“Then by bringing the message you have become the messenger despite how stupid you may be. It’s been a long day, and my wives await me. Out with it fast and I’ll excuse your ignorance. Stand up.”
The rider followed the Prince’s command, and holding the scroll out in front of him he unrolled it and read:
To Prince Richard of Pfallia. Do not listen to the lies of the Haxens. They do not seek peace, nor do they seek what’s rightfully theirs. Third Prince Daniel of Haxen is already on the move. His troops are lining the borders of my land and yours as we speak. They shall be here within three weeks times and we cannot hold them. My spies number his forces in the thousands, and without your steady sword we shall fall. I’ve reason to suspect he’s had a hand in the death of His Nobleness King Errock, and that he wishes to take the crown by force. He has gathered many allies, and the hour of our sunset is near. Gather your forces, and stand with us through the night of war my ally, friend, and brother. Meet us at Dolran’s Keep before the fields of Ehre in two weeks time. There we shall make our stand.
Second Prince Jared of Nodsten.
The courtroom stood in utter silence, as the rider’s last words were spoken. All eyes grasped onto Prince Richard as he mulled the words over in his head. His face grew from concern, to worry, and then to rage. Each step creasing the skin on his forehead more and more as his skin began to burn red with anger. Standing up he declared in his deep bass voice “The King is dead, and lesser men seek his place. Let the trumpets be sounded from every tower in the land. Let the men assemble. We have been called to War.” The crowd erupted in cheers.
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