Compostela

When I was but a boy of nineteen years
My heart was filled with blood near boiling hot
And courage that could master any fear
That drove me into action without thought.
But with such heedless coin can sin be bought,
And when I drew my blade in anger’s name
My hands were shackled down with chains of blame.

What quarrel stoked the fire I cannot say,
Nor who struck first when our two blades were crossed.
I only know that I saw fit to slay
A stranger whose life needn’t have been lost.
As eye for eye, so my life his should cost,
But undeservèd mercy shone on me
And so instead I journeyed to the sea.

The bishop charged me with the sin of wrath
But thought that my black heart could be made whole.
He set me onto Santiago’s path
With distant Compostela as my goal.
I prayed that I could heal my broken soul
By journeying long miles through distant lands
With nothing but a pilgrim’s staff in hand.

I traded silken doublets for rough wool,
My jeweled girdles shed for hempen twine.
A pilgrim’s meal would never make me full,
And nighttime found me bedded down with swine.
I moaned about the fate that now was mine
And cursed the man who drove me to the rage
That locked me in my penitential cage.

A day, a week, a month upon the road
In neverending exile each had passed,
Yet as with fellow travelers I strode
Each dawn was somehow brighter than the last.
Our pace was neither too slow nor too fast
And as we walked I learned the pilgrims’ songs
That slowly made me feel I might belong.

Through France we went, and so to Aragon,
Along the road that thousands walked before
And thence into Castile we journeyed on
To where we sought redemption, nothing more.
I heard the mass and felt my heart restored;
I touched the pillar with a trembling hand
And found myself a newly minted man.

In time I made my way back whence I came,
A fledgeling bird flown back into the nest,
Grown to a man now worthy of the name.
No longer with a fire deep in his breast,
But rather by a calmer light now blessed.
Once God forgave me for my mortal sin
I found a new life waiting to begin.

A poem written in rhyme royal, November 2010.

When I was young I had no love for dance
But Fate stepped in and offered me a chance
To take the hand of Beauty if I dared
And so I went without a backward glance.

A young man’s mind is like a darting hare
That leaps without direction here and there
Until he sees a doe across the field;
Then all who stand between had best beware.

The fires of youth forge iron into steel
And burn with inspiration and with zeal
Yet passion’s flames do only half the deed;
Art’s subtle form takes wisdom to reveal.

The greatest horse may run with lightning’s speed
And perfectly define its ancient breed,
But lacking a firm hand upon the rein
It cannot hope to be a Sultan’s steed.

When artists are by patron’s will restrained,
Their hands weighed down by duty’s heavy chains,
They grumble and complain at every task,
But only through such work can strength be gained.

The master his apprentice e’er will ask
To do this thing and then complete that task
And though he may not offer glowing praise
He smiles behind the disapproving mask.

The boy will serve his master night and day
To learn the skills for which his sweat has paid
Until one day he wakes, surprised, to find
Himself a man and master of his trade.

The master’s role is only half-defined
Until, as he was trained, he trains in kind:
The wild horse, the fire, the leaping hare
He must now seek and as apprentice bind.

This is a ruba’iyat written for the bardic competition at Silver Hammer, hosted by the Barony of Thor’s Mountain on October 31, 2010.

In sapphire skies two ravens fly,
Their feathers red like blood new shed,
And utter not a single cry
For each holds secrets in his head
That he must guard for those they serve
With ever-silent wings outspread.
The place the wheeling birds observe
Has verdant fields of fruit and flower
Surrounded by the highway’s curve
And guarded by a crimson tower
That rises high above the land,
A symbol of the Kingdom’s power
As wielded by a Baron’s hand:
A palm in peace, a fist in war,
But always firmly in command.
The tower to the sky does soar,
But no one hand built it alone
For many hearts beat at its core
And those who sit upon its throne –
The short, the tall, the fierce, the bright –
Have dedicated every stone
To those who kindle honor’s light
And with their passion feed the fire
That sees them through the darkest night.
Thus does the Barony aspire
To raise the South Downs ever higher.

This is a poem in terza rima dedicated to the Barony of the South Downs, on the occasion of the investiture of Jadi Fatima and Hajji Turahan, September 18, 2010.

On the day you were born and your cries rang out clear
Your family stood round and said “you belong here.”

As a child you were quick with a question and quip;
Every book that you opened read “you belong here.”

Before long you were dancing with fire in your feet
And your heart soon informed your head: “you belong here.”

Though your birthplace burned bright in the hearth of your heart
The wide world called with arms outspread, “you belong here.”

A journey of many long miles in the west
Taught you anywhere your feet led, you belong here.

Your beloved you found in the wild lands beyond
And you knew on the day you wed, you belong here.

You returned to your home both to teach and to serve
Knowing with every homeward tread, you belong here.

Now the people have spoken and asked you to lead
And with bright pearls upon your head, you belong here.

This is a ghazal written for the occasion of Mistress Jadi Fatima al-Ishfahani al-Samarkandiyya’s investiture as Baroness of the South Downs, September 18, 2010.

On Governance

Man’s nature is to always congregate
In towns and cities hemmed around with walls
That keep him safe yet cannot stop the fate
Into which all communities must fall:
By tyrant’s sword or screaming mob’s desire
The peaceful days will ever end in fire.

Upon his throne a king or prince may sit
With knights and soldiers heeding his command
To keep the peace and force all to submit
And forge a single nation from his land
But, craving freedom, rebels will appear
And storm the castle gates with sharpened spear.

The crownèd head within his sturdy keep
May shut the door and throw the iron bolt
While royal swords pile bloody bodies deep
To guard his rule from popular revolt
But whether he finds vict’ry or defeat
The battle will turn sour what once was sweet.

When crowns are melted down to coins of gold
And cities rule themselves by equal vote
The greatest spoils will still go to the bold
Who bend the very rules their own hands wrote
And though they speak of man’s inherent worth
Give greater shares to those of higher birth.

The council’s rule and judge’s solemn oath
Should wrap the city in a single skin
Yet councillor and judge must look to both
Their duty to their city and their kin
And soon the bonds of family, faith, and guild
Will tear apart all that they sought to build.

Though one may try to build a perfect world
Where power is held tight or shared alike
The flags of conflict e’er will be unfurled
And flown from rebel spear or party pike
Upon the muddy road of discontent
Where all our years on this earth must be spent.

Yet hope remains though still the banners wave
For while the road is hard and full of turns
The middle ground ‘tween king and mob is paved
With sweat and tears and scars in battle earned
While steering the unsteady ship of state
Past tow’rs of war to peace’s distant gate.

Written in English sestet form on June 1, 2010.

The Conqueror’s Choice

When men decide to take up arms
Against their neighbors and to fight
O’er castles strong and verdant farms
Declaring that they have the right
To call this place or that their own
By virtue of their sword hand’s might
A seed beneath that land is sown
Plucked from the warrior’s wrathful soul
And needing blood to be full grown.
The sins of war demand their toll
And conquerors must in time decide
To break their foes or leave them whole.
A steely voice speaks from one side
With logic in its cruel design
To never stop till all have died
And raze each house to leave no sign
That any other ever dwelled
Within the fresh-inked border line.
But in the other hand is held
The choice to let the vanquished live
And from their homeland be expelled.
The soft heart is inclined to give
Safe passage to those it has banned
But exiles are slow to forgive
The ones who drove them from their land
And vengeance drives them to return
With hardened heart and sword in hand
To topple tow’rs and watch them burn
Until the land is cleared again
So they may rebuild in their turn.
But two results can follow when
The die is cast and plans are made
To go to war with other men:
The blackened soul and bloody blade
Or mercy’s grace with war repaid.

This is a poem in terza rima written late at night on May 18, 2010.

The foot may seem to be of little worth
Upon the ground besmirched by dirt and dust
And yet its firm connection to the earth
Gives power to the lunging rapier’s thrust.

As well, the hand is such a fragile thing
That it must hide within the gauntlet’s shell
But cleverly its fingers guide the sting
Along a course no parry can repel.

But two eyes are we given for our sight
To mark things near at hand or far away
Yet these are quite sufficient that we might
Know where to strike yet keep our foes at bay.

With foot and hand and eye all three combined
Sure victory is never far behind.

This is an English sonnet written for the winner of the Rapier Tourney at Lusty Month of May, Mikolai Pilypas. It was presented on May 15, 2010.

The mighty bear strikes out with tooth and claw
To rend the flesh away from bloody bone
Yet softly does it lick the bear cub’s paw
When sated it returns back to its home.

Likewise the snarling wolf will lead its pack
To leap upon the unsuspecting sheep
All so that it may bring a morsel back
To where its hungry pups lay fast asleep.

A soldier’s sword is forged to go to war
And shed the crimson blood of those it smites
But death is not the purpose at its core
And war is not the warrior’s delight.

The blade defends the lives and honor of
Our kinsfolk and the people that we love.

This is an English sonnet written for the winner of the Rose Tourney at Lusty Month of May, Caius Aurelius. It was presented on May 15, 2010.

The sun shines down with far too great a heat
For man or beast to stand beneath its might
Until a wall of white cloud intercedes
And turns the burning fire to softer light.

Behind the curtain hides a blinding flame
Too beautiful to gaze upon alone;
A mystery that man’s tongue cannot name
Although he feels its call deep in his bones.

Against all sense I strain my eyes to see
What lies obscured within the silken mist,
A hope within my heart that I might be
The one who can survive its blazing kiss.

To burn in beauty’s fire would be worthwhile;
Pray lift your veil and let me see your smile.

This is an English sonnet written late at night on April 19, 2010.

I turned my eyes up to the morning sky
Where horses’ tails ran off into the west
And wondered where the souls of men might fly
When time’s long march had brought them to their rest.

It’s said we rise up to the stars above
To sit beside the Lord that gave us breath,
But does not part remain with those we love
In memory that endures beyond our death?

The works we leave behind and carve in stone
Show what was valued most within our heart;
To those who knew us by our name alone
Our memory is a legacy of art.

A life of kindness and of industry
Gives each our share of immortality.

This is an English sonnet written on the occasion of the Coronation of TRM Thomas and Elisenda on April 10, 2010.