So, those who know me (the number of which I hope is growing *ahem*) will know that I quite like good poetry. I am, of course, partial to the olden style of it, such things as the beauties scattered throughout the Lord of the Rings novels, some of the works of Robert Frost, and the Lays of Beleriand (a special favorite!). I am also partial to rhyming verse. I mean really; if one is going to work so hard at a language as complicated as English, one may as well exercise the full use of it. In the long labors of my own writing, and the numerous talks I've had with other writers and poets, I've come to realize that good rhyming verse, really good rhyming verse, is often much harder to produce than non-rhyming verse. In a way, you set bonds about the realm of your creativity, because you must establish a discernible flow and keep to it, you cannot continuously use the same ending words line after line, and what's more, it is often the case that the last word in a line that you really wish to jot down simply doesn't flow with the last word in the line above it! But in my humble opinion, there are few things as rewarding as sitting back and reading over a well crafted rhyming poem. It lifts the mind when read silently, and lightens the tongue when read aloud.
I have decided to share a rhyming poem of mine with you all today. I am going to split it into two parts (did I mention that I am also a fan of lengthy poems that tell stories? Epics, some call them, but I rarely use the term.). Unlike others I've shared in the past this one does have a title. Now, beware, it's a bit long, but I put a lot of work into it, and it rhymes! (How about that?) Hope you all enjoy.
The Coldest Heart of All
Hear now a tale of woe.
A
story that a heart quite old did know
When
she gave of her love long ago
On
an endless night of moon-swathed snow.
A
house there was upon a hill,
Which
sheltered a woman most strangely ill
Who
warmed by a fire of ice and snow
In
a land that was, so long ago.
Enchantment
she wove about her domain
To
fend off sunlight, wind and rain,
To
stay the beasts, and to keep a chill
Within
this house upon a hill.
A
chill that suffered no warmth of breath,
A
chill that promised naught but death
To
those shrouded beneath its folds. And so,
We
shall hear what tale from long ago.
Enchantment
the more this woman had,
For
though in mortal form she was clad
She
ensnared age, the decay of years,
And
locked it in a bottle of silver tears.
And
though all seasons might come and go
Neither
dim nor failing durst her eyes grow.
Neither
bent of back nor gray of hair,
But
tall and slender; cold and fair.
Fair
as a hilltop crowned with rain;
Fair
as white mist in a darkened plain;
Fair
as a stream of calming flow,
But
colder than the coldest night may grow.
Now
on a night she gathered food for meat
She
heard, as it were, the sound of faltering feet
And,
turning about, she beheld a form,
Stumbling
upon her hill where was no thing warm.
‘Twas
a man, haggard, grim, and worn;
In
his eyes a look most forlorn.
Scarce
a moment later he staggered and fell,
As
though smitten by a sudden, crippling spell.
Then
she arose and went to his side.
‘How
came ye here?’ she asked. ‘By tide
Of
magic? Enchantment’s grace?
Whither
came ye from your own place?’
In
her words was neither anger nor scorn,
But
rather likened to a murmur borne
On
a wind that drifts without a care.
A
wind that warmth may never share.
His
eyes uplifted. He beheld her face.
‘By
magic?’ said he. ‘Enchantment’s grace?
Nay.
But cut off from my company have I been,
By
a storm that ravaged, but was not seen.
Many
days have I wondered, seeking aid,
Stumbling
‘neath the trees whose casting shade
Has
hemmed me in. My hope was lost and I was ill,
Yet
from afar I descried this house and hill.
And
with the last of my strength up I strode,
Seeing
no path or walking road.
And
help, most truly, I would now ask of thee,
For
death has sought, and is seeking for me.’
‘And
death shall find you,’ she, answering, said.
‘Even
here, where thou layest thine head.’
‘Those
words are cruel. Cruel indeed.
To
withhold help from one in need.’
‘Perhaps,’
she said, ‘to those who know
Whither
to walk and where never to go.
For
none venture here and none return,
Though
for warmth and day they may ever yearn.’
‘In
truth I tell you,’ he bestirringly said,
‘That
when first my eyes opened, I thought myself dead.
For
I looked on a sight of beauty unbound,
A
loveliness most profound.
But
your heart is cold and without regret.
This
is not the aid I thought to have met.’
‘Perhaps,
perchance, but your thoughts are not mine.
Little
good will it do thee to beg and pine.’
‘A
barter then, a covenant true,
An
unfaltering oath shall I swear to you.’
Then
reaching weakly to his breast,
As
though it were some enfolding nest,
He
drew out with care a band of gold
That
flared to silver in his hold.
‘Lo!
My greatest treasure ever won,
Gained
in battle under scorching sun.
To
thee I offer it in return
For
the help I asked that you did spurn.’
As
she looked upon his band of shifting hue
The
desire to possess it swiftly grew.
For
many things could she do with silver-gold.
‘If
in truth you make me an offer so bold
Then
enter now my delicate home.
Fear
no longer in pain to roam.’
Into
her abode she led him by hand,
Her
eyes ever lighting upon his band,
And
there she tended him in his pain,
She
who had nigh afore been his bane.
She
laid him upon a couch of cold,
But
he cried: ‘Nay! Even now the hold
Of
death draws nigh.
Do
not chill my blood with beguiling ply.’
‘How
then shall I warm you, o weakling dire?’
‘Bestir
a flame. Rouse a fire.’
At
this bidding she drew swiftly back.
‘That
alone of the arts I lack.’
‘I
doubt not that such a thing would be lost
To
she who hems herself in with frost.
But
I cannot weather such clinging freeze.
I
shall keep my band you think to seize
If
you will not hearken to me in any wise.
I
shall bear it beyond the boundless skies.’
But
lust overcame her wavering.
The
lust for so small and precious a thing.
And
with commanding voice but head bowed low
She
bid her fire of ice and snow
Become
a flame. And a reddened flame indeed up-started,
And
from it the chill swiftly departed.
His
limbs were heated, his blood was warmed.
But
in her there arose and a-sudden stormed
An
agony burning, and with it a dread.
And,
raising herself, the room she fled
And
afterwards returned not, save to visit his bed
To
soothe his wounds and provide water and bread.
Keep Strong!
