Furor Poeticus: Day 3

An unfinished (and unfinishable) poem

Bracing, the battlefield lamps; evening grey
Before do lordly souls pray; kneel’d,
Within caliginous throat a heart steel’d,
Joined in the afray;
Stayed in line, spears upright, fire drowned;
Crowned, guarded by the lords of leaves and dust,
Whereunto rests thy vestiges of zeal.

Must speaketh not any mind the love for another man.
Biding with death all of noon’s span. Faced,
Within slits of metal two eyes dazed;
In line and rank;
Promises to leave fortunes thank’d, laced
About the myriad glances of that tyrian river, flank’d;
Whilst free will’d dissuasion must weal.

A pariah to poetry, a piranha to prose!

I hate you, Tennyson, you scoundrel!
Your poetry, ’tis written so well,
But how do you imagine readers felt,
When with awe they were dealt,
And forever fell under your ghastly spell?

I am such a man, a legend of lore and myth;
A player amongst the Jedi and even amongst the Sith,
But I only had to read your Ode
To Memory that you long ago wrote,
And now am left rendered literally blithe.

I should’ve listened to my muse when it said,
“Poetry’s not your thing, not your loaf of bread.”
If only Arabian Plath wasn’t there,
Punishing me with her boring stare,
I would’ve left this genre long ago for dead!

Piteous is the soul who aspired to greatness
But succumbed to the revelation of his lateness,
And now is condemned for e’er to mourn
What introduced itself only as sojourn:
The whiplash of ambition; O, its demanding chasteness!

I pick up the pen and already I see the end
When I will never be as great as Pete Townshend!
Is it the curse of the reader to know
Or but the woe of the writer to sow
That history once written will never again bend?

Much as you believe this is all so stupid,
I wish I was Tennyson’s daddy, but Cupid
Had his own pink plans; that pig
Put on his mother’s pate a wig
And locked them in a room and ran and hid!

Voila! Would you know, they sired a poet
Of fame and renown, with much royal debt,
Bought him a castle when he turned one,
And a golden umbrella for summer’s sun
When he should’ve been killed when they first met!

Now under his glare my mind, it withers;
Like a slimy snake, away it slithers,
For, having now read his ode,
I shall leave my worldly abode
And settle down in Vegas to quell my dithers.

Look at me, how naked I right now seem!
So darned unworthy of the Nobel you’d deem!
If you excuse me now, I’ll retire
To my chambers in silence and conspire
The downfall of Tennyson! O, how he’ll scream!

The mirror of Crysdalan

Strolling perchance one evening
Did I set out from the estate,
To embrace the wind and walk with it,
For company the leaves from beyond the dale,
Whereupon the airs did die asudden;
Prest to look ahead I witnessed
The sullen spires and steeled windows
With walls of stone rising into the sky;
Forbidding, inviting, all at once,
I was drawn, inch after inch,
Into mighty Crysdalan!

Ahead was hung a portrait,
A ghastly face bequeathed in its space;
An eidolon of decayed wisps,
Guarding the doorway with but its stare!
But as I watched and studied
Did the doors that authored my arrival
Did verily script my terror
For they clanged shut with great furore
While any wind there was none;
I was terrified and locked
Within the halls of mighty Crysdalan!

An incomplete darkness was visible,
Thieved from its black glare,
At a corner of the vast hall,
Where in a bracket hung the lone torch;
Borrowing its service, I awakened
The fires to once more proffer dawn!
A light, a light, soon sweeping;
Thus did awaken my spirits unto this morn!
I stepped forth to explore,
For I was here not to sup
With the stone of mighty Crysdalan!

But trapped alone by the western zephyr:
Bones I saw scattered ‘neath my feet;
Stepping light and stepping slow,
With naught but a fire in one hand,
And a seeping madness within my soul,
I walked afar and I walked long,
Ere I chanced upon a mirror,
Framed in gold and gems and more!
Silvery was its face and polished its brow;
Soon, consumed, I desired a meeting; lo!
Within mighty Crysdalan!

Would that the demons be descended,
Or the lords of pain be feasting,
A more execrable face I don’t recall
Having ever seen in nightmare or dream!
Long-fingered talons gripped at my heart,
And blew at the flame; it danced and swayed,
Ere it died out in this wrathful hell;
But what must I have done, nay sinned,
To have deserved this fate; I know not,
I care not, for must I soon leave!
I must soon leave before the demons awaken
Within mighty Crysdalan!

Before the demons steal me!
Then did I give chase to screaming winds,
Seeking some door, some window in the wall,
And beheld in my terror one in the hall!
It leered, that picture, joyously so;
It seemed to hiss behind my departure,
But sooner than I did hit the earth,
Was I awakened from sleep by a distant dirge,
And so glad was I that ’twas all a vision,
And swore that night I’d walk never again!
Let alone enter mighty Crysdalan!

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