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Welcome friends to the poetry wing of Zayix's Falgorna Archives.
The verses herein are meant to be recited out loud. They are based
on fantasy themes and hopefully will help impart an emotional,
as well as sensory, understanding of the world of Fälgorna. All
these poetic offerings, except where noted otherwise, are written
by me, Zayix, aka, Steve Stewart.
Battlemate
by Zayix Duminzahar, warrior and poet
She sings with white fire
and Valkyries’ breath,
blade hone in the hearts of her foes,
Soul trembling with desire,
the blessing unfolds
eye of the dragon seeking its home;
Dance, dance, the gauntlet thrown down
Her rage a pyre,
forge burning unbound;
Wild mare, untamed
Skin flushed in battle glow
steam melting the morning snow,
Battle cry, ode, fairy tale
earthly bound and heaven fell
Ride to war today!
(TOP)
A night with the abbess
Do you not think me beautiful?
Aye, compared to the maggots
crawling from your face
the mold growing in your hair
the stench of your decaying flesh
Aye, you’re beautiful.
When I gaze upon your beauty
I only feel one emotion, disgust
Disgust from which my blessed blade
cannot hope to free me
though it cleaves your skull
from atop your wretched moldering corpse.
Your beauty seizes me
with churning stomach
and feverish sweat
It sends me reeling with hand
over my mouth to hold back
my bile and to guard my breath.
I feel your beauty
like a nightcrawler slithering
up my naked back
and finding purchase upon an
open wound, burrowing for
tidbits of gangernous flesh.
Peering into your empty sockets
In your eyes, I see your beauty
like the night beyond night
the cold place where no sun
ever heats the sharp stones
cutting my bare feet.
Like meat burned and discarded
a home for carrion beetles
and ants which swallow
each piece like a feast
they will find your beauty
in the hollow pits of their bellies.
Eucharist.
Unholy.
Aye, I think you beautiful.
(TOP)
Untitled
Close your eyes
I’ll slide the knife in deep
a glowing iron of frozen sun
cauterizing the wound
forbidding proper healing
a casual nudge sufficing
to reopen the gaping hole
When will you learn?
The more you struggle
the worse the pain.
(TOP)
Potter’s Field
by Zayix Duminzahar, warrior and poet
Dark lash of fate blistered
into one holy swing
my blade calls vengeance
to the dead it sings,
unlife that plagues
the lands and prays
for freedom,
and sleep,
and starless night;
Rogue and warrior
back to back
in the potter’s field
rogue swings his axe
warrior's blade strikes zombie’s head
its red eyes close
rejoins the dead,
O’er and o’er they claw from the ground
beating back the pair, pounding them down;
Across the field the battle rages
the countless hordes
the stench of ages,
warrior, his shield before his eyes
to block the sight of feasting flies,
when meaty mouth croaks out in pain
“Fresh meat” it wails
and strikes again,
flesh parts from flogging fist,
revealing bone, its hate persists.
Warrior falls back first this time
a gaping wound his neck unbinds,
whispered prayer to Voln he beckons,
“grant my life another second.”
Reaching down to gold ring true
he shakes the stun
and then he’s through,
Quickly now he rides the wind
removes the ring, to town again;
He finds the touch to stop the ebb
his life a spark at river’s edge
the empaths gather round his frail
strife torn body soon to fail
speed he needs, not a rest
his friend, he knows in great duress.
They staunch the flow, yet too late
A message from Lorminstra’s gate
Vandorian is slain!
The dead they think the day is won
but on mists the clerics come
they bow before the fallen rogue
and fill his soul with heavenly load,
Rising from the field again
Now he moves, rejoins his friend,
Doomed legions, see their work unmade
fearing quick return to grave
Companions come, and Yes, they're brave.
(TOP)
Preparation
The mother of heat gathered the warriors to her breast
filling the night with her moist, sticky breath
Far off, a bird loosed a pale, mournful cry
No other creature dared break stillness nigh
Not silence, but lull, a feeling of isolation
Each unshaven man alone walks in line
Mud-spattered and scratched, a nest place for insects
burrowed deep among his warm folds of flesh
Each stride coaxes creaks from worn swords in leather scabbards
weapon oil breathing a taste like strong musk
whispering pleas for a meal of steel and lust
and curbing to their gnawing appetites
One behind the other, they watch the sweat bead and roll
trace the neckline of each last man to go
and the village lights flicking through the haze
Ahead, their leader signals a stay.
(TOP)
Amairgen's poem
(the words he spake as he set his right foot upon Irish soil:
Translated by R.A.S. Macalister from Lebor Gabála Érenn)
- I am Wind on Sea,
- I am Ocean wave,
- I am Bull of Seven Fights,
- I am Vulture on Cliff,
- I am Dewdrop,
- I am Fairest of Flowers,
- I am Boar for Boldness,
- I am Lake on Plain ...
- I am a Word of Skill,
- I am the Point of a Weapon (that poureth forth combat),
- I am God who fashioneth Fire for a Head.
- Who smootheth the ruggedness of a mountain?
- Who is He who announceth the ages of the Moon?
- And who, the place where falleth the sunset?
- Who calleth the cattle from the House of Tethra?
- On whom do the cattle of Tethra smile?
- Who is the troop, who the god who fashioneth edges ... ?
- Enchantments about a spear? Enchantments of Wind?
-
(TOP)
If you love poetry I suggest you check out the 1948 Nobel Prize
winner, T.S. Eliot, (my current favorite).
Here's a sample:
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Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table:
Let us go, through half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.
From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
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Battlemate
