ASF Poetry Thread

THE FEUD : A BORDER BALLAD
PLATE I - Rixa super mero

They sat by their wine in the tavern that night, But not in good fellowship true:
The Rhenish was strong and the Burgundy bright, And hotter the argument grew.

'I asked your consent when I first sought her hand, Nor did you refuse to agree,
Tho' her father declared that the half of his land Her dower at our wedding should be.'

'No dower shall be given (the brother replied) With a maiden of beauty so rare,
Nor yet shall my father my birthright divide, Our lands with a foeman to share.'

The knight stood erect in the midst of the hall, And sterner his visage became,
'Now, shame and dishonour my 'scutcheon befall, If thus I relinquish my claim."

The brother then drained a tall goblet of wine, And fiercely this answer he made--
'Before like a coward my rights I resign I'll claim an appeal to the blade.

"The passes at Yarrow are rugged and wide, There meet me to-morrow alone;
This quarrel we two with our swords will decide, And one shall this folly atone.'

They've settled the time and they've settled the place, They've paid for the wine and the ale,
They've bitten their gloves, and their steps they retrace, To their castles in Ettrick's Vale.


PLATE II - Morituri (te) salutant, Now, buckle my broadsword at my side
And saddle my trusty steed;
And bid me adieu, my bonnie bride, To Yarrow I go with speed.

'I've passed through many a bloody fray Unharmed in health or limb;
Then why's your brow so sad this day And your dark eye so dim?'

'Oh, belt not on your broadsword bright, Oh! leave your steed in the stall,
For I dreamt last night of a stubborn fight, And I dreamt I saw you fall.'

'On Yarrow's braes there will be strife, Yet I am safe from ill;
And if I thought it would cost my life I must take this journey still.'

He turned his charger to depart In the misty morning air,
But he stood and pressed her to his heart And smoothed her glossy hair.

And her red lips he fondly kissed Beside the castle door,
And he rode away in the morning mist, And he never saw her more!

PLATE III Heu! deserta domus
She sits by the eastern casement now, And the sunlight enters there,
And settles on her ivory brow And gleams in her golden hair.
....

PLATE IV Gaudia certaminis
He came to the spot where his foe had agreed, To meet him in Yarrow's dark glade,
And there he drew rein amd dismounted his steed, And fastened him under the shade.

Close by in the greenwood the ambush was set, And scarce had he entered the glen
When, armed for the combat, the brother he met, And with him were eight of his men.

'Now, swear to relinquish all claim to our land, Or to give as a hostage your bride!
Or fly if your able, or yield where you stand, Or die as your betters have died!'

His doublet and hat on the greensward he threw, He wrapt round the left arm his cloak;
And out of its scabbard his broadsword he drew, And stood with his back to an oak.

'My claim to your land I refuse to deny, Nor will I restore you my bride,
Now will I surrender, nor yet will I fly: Come on, and the steel shall decide!'

Oh! sudden and sure were the blows that he dealt! Like lightning the sweep of his blade!
Cut and thrust, point and edge, all around him they fell, They fell one by one in the glade!

And pierced in the gullet their leader goes down! And sinks with a curse on the plain;
And his squire falls dead! cut through headpice and crown! And his groom by a back stroke is slain.

Now five are stretched lifeless; disabled are three! Hard pressed, see the last caitiff reel!
The brother behind struggles up on one knee, And drives through his body the steel.
And drives though his body the steel. caitiff - coward

PLATE V Non habeo mihi facta adhuc cur Herculis uxor
Credar coniugii mors mihi pignus erit.
The traitor's father heard the tale, In haste he mounted then,
And spurred his horse from Ettrick Vale To Yarrow's lonely glen,

Some troopers followed in his track-- For them he tarried not,
He neither halted nor looked back Until he found the spot.

The earth was trod and trampled bare, And stained with dark red dew,
A broken blade lay here, and there A bonnet cut in two;

And stretched in ghastly shapes around The lifeless corpses lie,
Some with their faces to the ground, And some towards the sky.

And there the ancient Border chief, Stood silent and alone--
Too stubborn to give way to grief, Too stern remorse to own.

A soldier in the midst of strife, Since he had first drawn breath,
He'd grown to undervalue life, And feel at home with death.

And yet he shuddered when he saw, The work that had been done;
He knew his fearless son-in-law, He knew his dastard son.

Despite the failings of his race, A brave old man was he,
Who would not stoop to actions base, And hated treachery.

He loved his younger daughter well, And though severe and rude,
For her sake he had tried to quell, That foolish Border feud.

Her brother all his schemes had marred, And given his pledge the lie,
And sense of justice struggled hard, With nature's stronger tie.

He knew his son had richly earned, The stroke that laid him low,
Yet had not quite forgiveness learned, For him that dealt the blow.

There came a tramp of horses' feet: He raised his startled eyes,
And felt his pulses throb and beat, With sorrow and surprise.

He saw his daughter riding fast, And from her steed she sprung,
And on her lover's corpse she cast, Herself. and round him clung.

...
The stout moss-trooper glanced around But not a word he said;
He knelt upon the battered ground And raised his master's head.

The face had set serene and sad, Nor was there on the clay
The stamp of that fierce soul which had In anger passed away.
....
The father first that silence broke; His voice was firm and clear,
And every accent that he spoke, Fell on the listener's ear.
'Daughter, this quarrel to forgo, I offered half our land
A dower to him--a feudal foe-- When first he sought your hand.

I only asked for some brief while, Some few short weeks' delay,
Till I my son could reconcile; For this he would not stay.
He was your husband, so I'm told; But you yourself must own
He took you to his fortress-hold With your consent alone.

Of late the strife broke out anew; They blame your brother there;
But he was hot and headstrong, too-- He doubtless did his share.
Oh! stout of heart, and strong of hand, With all his faults was he,
The champion of his Border land; I ne'er his judge will be!

Now, grieve no more for what is done; Alike we share the cost;
For, girl, I too have lost a son, If you your love have lost.
Forget the deed! and learn to call A worthier man your lord
Than he whose arm has vexed us all; Here lies his fatal sword.

Think, when you seek his guilt to cloak, Whose blood has dyed it red,
Who fell beneath its deadly stroke, Whose life is forfeited.'
The old man paused, for while he spoke The girl had raised her head.
Her silken hair she proudly dashed Back from her crimson face!

And in her bright eyes once more flashed The spirit of her race!
He beauty made her stand abashed! Her voice rang thro' the place!
'Who held the treacherous dagger's hilt When against odds he fought?
My brothers blood was fairly spilt! But his was basely sought!

Now, Christ absolve his soul from guilt; He sinned as he was taught!
'His next of kin by blood and birth May claim his house and Land!
His groom may slack his saddle-girth, Or bid his charger stand!
But never a man on God's wide earth Shall touch his darling's hand!'

The colour faded from her cheek, Her eyelids drooped and fell,
And when again she sought to speak Her accents came so low and weak
Her words they scarce could tell. 'Oh! father, all I ask is rest,--
Here let me once more lie!' She stretched upon the dead man's breast
With one long weary sigh; And the old man bowed his lofty crest
And hid his troubled eye!

They called her, but she spoke no more, And when they raised her head
She seemed as lovely as before, Though all her bloom had fled;
But they grew pale at that they saw-- They knew that she was dead!


PLATE VI Dies irae: dies illa
The requiem breaks the midnight air, the funeral bell they toll,--
A mass or prayer we well may spare, for a brave moss-trooper's soul;
And the fairest bride on the Border side, may she too be forgiven!
The dirge we ring, the chant we sing, the rest we leave to Heaven!

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At The Colonial Plaza on King Street , by redsky

I'm experimenting with form, this is a syllabic poem, each line ranges between 10 to 11 syllables (I think there's one with 12), but any helpful feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Dedication is a two string guitar,
with swirls of teal, jade and tangerine tinting
its sandy face. Bloated fingers tune with
fevered concentration like a crazed locksmith.
Salty mornings breathe an air of apathy.
Tourists and townies pass by without a glance
as fa and re float like placid soap bubbles,
each twang piercing their iridescent beauty.
An interlude follows. The tattered rag pulled
out from his army green pocket caresses
each dull curve of the guitar, a devotion
longed by some women from their callous lovers.
His splintered melodies regurgitate
an agony of mornings, noons and nights
trapped between paper blankets and a drenched
bench. His guttural persuasion smudges his face
with claret, vermilion, and burgundy,
like crushed wild berries speckled on a sidewalk.
A naked voice left howling through cobblestone
roads, without an audience, without a spotlight.

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trading rookie, nothing to do with the Cross, but a poem about King St nonetheless - a busker with a hangover who loves his guitar - different, nice imagery

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trading_rookie said:

It's not the one, infact I'm not sure now if it was called King Street, or it mentioned King Street in it. But I do recall pawn shops, alcho's and the low-life element of the street. Think it was written around the time of the depression.

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drillinto said:

Introduction to Poetry
Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem, and hold it up to the light, like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.

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QUARE FATIGASTI (Wither Bound) Adam Lindsay Gordon

Two years ago I was thinking
On the changes that years bring forth;
Now I stand where I then stood drinking
The gust and the salt sea froth;
And the shuddering wave strikes, linking
With the waves subsiding and sinking,
And clots the coast herbage, shrinking,
With the hue of the white cere-cloth.

Is there aught worth losing or keeping?
The bitters or sweets men quaff?
The sowing or the doubtful reaping?
The harvest of grain or chaff?
Or squandring days or heaping,
Or waking seasons or sleeping,
The laughter that dries the weeping,
Or the weeping that drowns the laugh?

The joys wax dim and woes deaden,
We forget the sorrowful biers,
And the garlands glad that have fled in
The merciful march of years;
And the sunny skies and the leaden,
And the faces that pale or redden,
And the smiles that lovers are wed in
Who are born and buried in tears.

And the myrtle bloom turns hoary,
And the blush of the rose decays,
And sodden with sweat and gory
Are the hard won laurels and bays;
We are neither joyous nor sorry
When time has ended our story,
And blotted out grief and glory,
And pain, and pleasure, and praise.

Weigh justly, throw good and bad in
The scales, will the balance veer
With the joys or the sorrows had in
The sum of a life's career?
In the end, spite of dreams that sadden
The sad, or the sanguine madden,
There is nothing to grieve or gladden,
There is nothing to hope or fear.

'Thou hast gone astray.' quoth the preacher,
'In the gall of thy bitterness,'
Thou hast taught me in vain, oh, teacher!
I neither blame thee nor bless;
If bitter is sure and sweet sure,
These vanish with form and feature--
Can the creature fathom the creature
Whose Creator is fathomless?

Is this dry land sure? Is the sea sure?
Is there aught that shall long remain,
Pain, or peril, or pleasure,
Pleasure, or peril, or pain?
Shall we labour or take our leisure,
And who shall inherit treasure,
If the measure with which we measure
Is meted to us again?

I am slow in learning, and swift in
Forgetting, and I have grown
So weary with long sand sifting;
T'wards the mist where the breakers moan
The rudderless bark is drifting,
Through the shoals and the quicksands shifting--
In the end shall the night-rack lifting,
Discover the shores unknown?

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noirua said:

My head is now hurting,
surely it's not curtains,
sick as a parrot,
I think I've had it.

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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Lindsay_Gordon Gordon had fallen in love with a girl of 17, Jane Bridges, who was able to tell the story 60 years afterwards to his biographers. He did not declare his love until he came to say good-bye to her before leaving for Australia on 7 August 1853. "With characteristic recklessness he offered to sacrifice the passage he had taken to Australia, and all his father's plans for giving him a fresh start in life, if she would tell him not to go, or promise to be his wife, or even give him some hope." This Miss Bridges could not do, though she liked the shy handsome boy and remembered him with affection to the end of a long life. It was the one romance of Gordon's life. That Gordon realized his conduct had fallen much below what it might have been can be seen in his poems .

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noirua said:

Something about that music that goes back to the 16th century or earlier - King Henry V111 and all that.

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2020hindsight said:

OKKER AUTONOMY (call it an Easter message of peace if you prefer )

A truly moral message that will resonate for years
Is not the one the booms out of a cannon near your ears
And who recalls the word of Caesar in historic mist ?
And who prefers the gentle thoughts of Buddha or the Christ?

I really liked the English Archbishop of Canterbury's Easter message ...(something like) ..

"We might get peace , but not before Moslems stop thinking of Christians as Crusaders
and Christians stop thinking of Moslems as Terrorists"

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