Posts tagged "Narrative Poem"
  1. 1 year ago 

    The Last Bard’s Tale (Part I) [REDUX]

    [This poem is a redux version of the original, combined with the fragments I had already written for its sequel, a fair bit I wrote for it now, and radically revised versions of my Under Exalted Heels poems. I amalgamated it out of, let’s say, necessity, and though the two universes seem incongruent, I’m proud of how the poems all ended up melding beautifully. So let’s just pretend I meant to do this all along. The virtue of this poem will dictate whether I get to do what I really want to do; it’s that important, and I’m (theoretically) that confident in it.]

    Prologue: Grandiose promises of yarn-spinning

    "Come traveler, and let me tell you of a forgotten realm trapped in yore
    Fill that chair, and into your mug this flagon’s fine mead will duly pour
    As this is a tale best enjoyed in good company, food and drink galore
    This hearth’s fire will warm us and ours minds shall drift, and explore
    a land that many bards the world over once came to longingly adore
    For, not least, inns all across this land would fill with countless score
    of eager simple folk, a stoic sort so rarely inspired to cheer and roar
    in appreciation of a poet’s well-spun tale, one deserving of ‘encore!’

    This is such a story, though sadly one no longer held in such ardour
    No, it’s been relegated to dusty tomes, whose perusal is quite a chore;
    most libraries ‘cross the continent rarely hold a volume in their store
    So it has now become a victim of obscurity like so many have before
    How is it that rich worldly legendry could be considered but a bore?
    Historians dig for paltry earthly trinkets but tend to so woefully ignore
    that real treasures are found in that, since oft pored over, elder lore

    Wait where was I? Oh yes! This fable which has not its existence nor
    its story widely known, thanks to our mythos forsaken age of sorry war
    Were its preservation to be deserted it may thusly be lost forever more!
    At least if not for the few tales still told of it, ones fiercely embossed for
    drama’s great effect: ‘Adventurers lo! Heed this tale you must not ignore’

    Chapter I: The dystopia fosters a champion

    In a distant kingdom, whose birthright was forged in the paupers’ fear,
    a tyrant ruled over his people with an iron fist and a righteous sneer
    His state taxes were exorbitant and his laws were so unfairly severe:
    the punishments found therein were such that one wouldn’t volunteer
    them upon even a most hated enemy, so brutalizing were they here
    Whilst the King lived in glowing luxury, his subjects were kept austere
    Peasantry in nature were they mostly; rarely could one name a peer
    whose new status as a yeoman was long lived inside of this frontier

    The sovereign’s inner-circle was composed of supposed cavaliers,
    who, in reality, merely acted as the despot’s worldly eyes and ears
    Ironic, in its way, as, amongst the people, their hollow kind veneer
    fooled absolutely no-one, for all knew that their gifts were insincere
    Each was retasked from spy to under-thumb, uncontested profiteer:
    greedy land barons who met any tenant’s pleas of lacking with a jeer

    The King also had a standing army, whom none would greet with cheer:
    for even though their coat of arms bore a nobly valiant soldier’s bandolier,
    these mercenaries did nothing but obey his tyrannical whims each year
    See, outside of the realm’s borders there stood no equal who’d persevere
    against this oppression and seek to invade, and free, this forlorn sphere
    Thus, the situation was grimly hopeless or so it would outwardly appear

    Yet, there was a heroic champion whose coming the peasants did revere
    A child whose birth was prophesied to happen with but a single loving tear
    For his mother would soon thereafter be put to death at the point of spear
    and in her lifeless arms this babe would not cry, to her bosom he’d adhere
    till the soldiers tore him off her to, in awe, dutifully spank his newborn rear
    His destiny was claimed to be, in the verdict of every single salt-worthy seer,
    that when he came of age, this oligarchy, which clearly sought to domineer
    every commoner, would finally be challenged, its blight would come to clear,
    and its end, long since disregarded, would, on the faint horizon, surely near

    Chapter II: The child born of death

    And this boy! Oh this boy! How unseeming could such a special child be?
    For were you to look upon him, a savior you would hard pressed be to see
    Initially a weak, sickly lad who was adopted by a humble pig-farming retiree
    and raised as was the custom: god-fearing, obedient, so inclined to agree
    with any man of the cloth who should offer any divine directive or decree

    It was also noted in his village that no others were as mild in manner as he
    Not that he was meek, or even wimpy, just so unassuming was he in deed
    Though twas not his nature in everything, in one field he was genuinely gutsy:
    with other boys he would roughhouse if provoked (but to no severe degree)

    Thanks to the adept tutelage of his ‘father’, long since a legionnaire draftee,
    the boy had learned basic sword fighting with sticks from a gnarled oak tree
    His grizzled sire taught him much of battle, imparting a considerable pedigree
    In fencing no other local boy could match his skill or daring, his warrior esprit!

    Chapter III: That which always changes, rarely for the better

    Soon though, the boy became a man, in the cruel fashion of the land,
    when his lowly father was abducted after tangling with the lawmen
    over the tyrant’s always increasing taxes and their pitiless demand
    As the boy was out at field, swiping and thrusting at the straw-men,
    practicing his new found art, his papa was taken, shackled in remand,
    and quickly sentenced to hard labour his old bones just couldn’t stand

    The boy returned from his joyful frolics to find the village much abuzz
    with harsh gossip of his papa’s unbroken spiritedness and imprisonment
    The throngs treated the oddball boy with upright suspiciousness because
    it had also spread that the farmer was some sort of political dissident,
    whose child, it was said, was not merely unusual but in truth illegitimate

    He rushed crying from the hissing accusations of the simple, fearful folk,
    and then made haste back unto the family’s cottage frightfully confused
    He saw, in the distance, the quaint little homestead billowing inky smoke
    and ran as fast as possible till he came across a man leaning on the oak
    With tearful steadfast gaze the man fast embraced the boy and then used
    a shaking hand to draw from out his pocket a small book, when he spoke
    he explained to the boy exactly of what his father had really been accused
    and as the fire quelled, and died in bitter embers, without the wind to stoke,
    he heard of his papa’s secret nature, and of boyish naivety was disabused
    Upstarting, the man took in the awful scene, and tugged tightly at his cloak
    which bore the same peculiar emblem as the book’s cover, which did evoke
    within the boy images of his father’s ring, and thus served to have infused
    the boy with trusting hope, so that the man’s offer of a new life did provoke
    awkwardly falling tears as he voiced his acquiescence with a throaty croak

    Chapter IV: An Ouroboros gestation - a tale within a tale within a tale

    In the man’s stately carriage they did journey into the bustling city’s heart
    The boy flipped through the pages of his papa’s pocketbook and so beheld
    that it housed an arcane poem of his papa’s, one written hoping it impelled
    the reader towards its decryption and thus the secret knowledge it’d impart:

    A king bloated with undue power did tread roughshod over all the human race
    ‘My liege, but what of freedom?’ asks a courtesan still of unquestioned chaste
    He thought hard, then did naught but slap her face, without a moment’s haste,
    and reasoned “In my kingdom, treason is that word, for it will have no place!”

    He claimed to be domineering for a purpose: to free a world of slaves
    who’d otherwise usurp us rational minority with a tribute paid to knaves
    who claim a measly worldly pittance must be the only just remittance
    to meddling Gods who sit setting morbid wagers just beyond our graves

    Our measure of plodding earth seems grand but Royal pastures so expand
    far beyond what the eye can easily see, and if annexed for our due territory
    We would earn that bold undying fame: a noblest legacy of a hero’s acclaim
    In Valhalla our vanguard’s place; they’d erect our cenotaph in godly domain

    Like you, I will not be circumscribed, the wretched King himself I’d surprise
    I implore you brothers, join me in shaking off this humbly subservient guise
    and ascend to meet that rotten bastard in his ill-begotten castle eye-to-eye
    We must become the glorious champions of all our pure and honest kind
    We must show all that the imperial beast can fall and this world we’ll redefine

    Our people’s militia shall assemble, and then initiate our righteous campaign
    against that evilest despot whom fate’s justice has not yet seem fit to arraign
    We’ll seek to claim all his purloined spoils for the kind, docile men of this land:
    to finally place our grass-stained hands beyond the modest arm’s just span

    Our crusade started, adopt skyward glare, seek details of their towering lair
    Probe our enemy sat in airy overlook; revolve round them with roving rook
    Spread word of their coming ruin in every common ear as herald of our advent
    The proletariat will disperse this omen; notched and fired, our first arrow sent!

    Then, in the awful twilight quiet, we shall rend the Heavens from the Earth
    and in this glorious hierarchical limbo we shall long be given a private berth
    The chaos of newly free men’s joyous riot will constitute a debasing hearth
    to cook and crack the damned chains of aristocracy in brashly mortal fire
    We shall unleash the indignantly vengeful beasts who know the king as sire
    Their adamantine hides will flow with molten rage and, honour-bound, anneal
    'til they harden nigh-impenetrable, bearing a blazing crest of unbrittled zeal
    In the grand aftermath of our emancipation the children of revolt shall rile
    the dictator’s fragile union of underlings and minions, who we shall beguile
    with promises of reinstation into power once the autocracy meets repeal
    We’ll task them with sabotage: lend their filthy ears to fill with a subtle bile

    Then we’ll douse our reverently enraged titans in the most potent hellfire wrath
    'tis true the immensely rugged and stalwart resolve the amassed belittled hath
    To convey this intrepidly lion-hearted army’s mission and direct our holy spear:
    I’ll mount the regent’s statue to bellow ‘What is owed the oppressed mutineer?’

    Our defiant force of valour all assembled, given sharp and flame of a finest steel
    We the hallowed flag bearers as the common man charges ornate palace gates,
    are blessed architects of a grandiose plan perfected whilst beneath a royal heel
    Revolution cometh; the swine sat haughtily upon a wicked throne we will displace
    The meekly downtrodden have arisen, and the King before us shall finally kneel!

    He read in awe, struggling to comprehend as his schooling was but brief
    It was clear though, from the poem’s frequent annotations found therein,
    that in many of the words some sort of special second meaning lay within
    The implication were startling, inspiring in the boy an astounded disbelief
    for it seemed that his father, instead of farmer, was to a spy far more akin

    For the poem his father had once penned was apparently being covertly printed
    as pamphlets to be distributed to rally known political dissidents in that manner
    of clandestine conscription by which dormant armies, via a single central planner,
    are assembled and given their instruction by a cryptic code that the poem hinted
    So that a secret plot may be dispersed and all gathered under revolution’s banner

    The carriage bumped over cobblestone, and yanked the boy from his imagination
    As the massive city came in view, an excitement flourished within his boyish mind
    For he was his father’s son and now bequeathed leadership of rebellious design
    The days ahead would see the boy learn even more about the vast orchestration
    So that the very first step of the plan was absolutely clear: his father’s liberation!”

  2. Notes: 9 / 2 years ago 

    Correspondence through Time (on the matter of Obsession)

    Part I

    First, a brief, but vitally important, letter to my past self,

    so a younger me might find it and save my mental health,
    it’s to be cast, once it is ‘bottled’, as far as possibly adrift
    on the sea of time’s shifting tides amongst the cosmic rift!

    Oh, you must preserve your sight as if it were your mind,
    and protect it by refraining from your prior profuse peeking
    For though rampant curiosity is not likely to strike you blind,
    what it is that your inquisitiveness will either come to find
    is the honest, brutal revelations they have inked in keeping
    with reasons good enough for the spurring of your weeping
    or maybe you’ll discover jibes written with the malice of unkind
    motives which memories and thoughts of you are now assigned

    Ah, but curiosity! That such oft famed lethal cat enticement,
    is so very likely to call to you so very kindly that my advisement
    towards avoiding the piercing pains of an after-fact realizement
    is still ostensibly to seem as an easily dismissed forethought
    so even as you read what I resignedly write about our hindsight
    being in your state of eager foolish stupor you’ll care for naught
    You’re probably still longing after what it is you’ve so long sought

    Read More

  3. Notes: 21 / 2 years ago 

    Do you know the black?

    So long contemplated, a final contingency I did dread,
    a plan which was, sadly, utterly and truly my last resort
    and though they’d no doubt think it crazy that I’d fled
    there’d soon be but awful comprehension in my stead!
    Since my flight if heralded they’d surely seek to thwart
    Alone must I wordlessly escape the ever-nearing deluge
    of a throughly diseased world; to a realm in lieu of ark
    I will finally find sanctuary, and come to forge a refuge,
    to secure mine own safety at a secret dwelling in the dark

    Now, some time has passed, and I am finally content
    My initial acclimatization was difficult but well assured
    Spinal blades re-sharpened, I’ll continue my descent;
    free-falling willingly is oft considered suicide ensured
    The only constant here is that darkness has endured

    Here, where your dirtied, sullied time is not allowed to go
    Here, where the worldly axis is forcefully thrusted off-tilter
    Here, where dimensionally the globe itself begins to slow
    Here, where all is unnaturally still now, and darkness falls
    Here, where black is so much blacker than any that you know
    Here, where the resounding dark is so seemingly virus esque
    Here, where twilight’s crass hospitality is reaching out to grow

    You see, this place, this new obsidian world that I had come to now freely call abode
    Where that effulgent life’s passing, as you know it, had thankfully all but wholly slowed
    Finally justifiably at ease, in this sable realm, as twas mine, and mine to none is owed
    Yet you outsiders! You would still peer on in, radiantly silently you would gleam and goad!
    Defiling my kingdom even with your sight, your light, such seeds of malice had you sown
    Perfectly impotent was I, even escaped outward anger couldn’t have extraneously flowed
    as in this halcyon stasis, this point of rest, amongst other things, the mind will not corrode
    It is preserved, in perfect form, in final grace, for so fully unassailable is it’s commode
    and most assuredly, as a crown jewel of kind there is no better place for it to be stowed
    For what you call the ‘real world’ has such vitriolic elements which are bound to erode
    the nature of one’s thoughts, integrity of one’s identity, and all that is so grossly showed;
    an ever-charging assault wave of stimuli, intent on overloading the most valuable of nodes
    So that here, where darkness is of a transcendent sort, nothingness prevails in its troves
    In it’s blackened comfort I have found retreat, solitude, protection, and that is why I strode
    from the blinding confines of your prison, finding shadowy utopia where dead men once rode

    However, you venomous dissenters!
    Oh Lord! Oh goodness gracious no!
    Branded with embers from envy of my freedom
    You just could not bear to see me go!
    Clawing at my trail to refute my humble plea
    You planned to smoke me out with a sky aglow!

    Outside greeted me one morning
    dazzling whitish light bearing the
    unholy sanctity and forewarning
    of the world it is usually adorning
    a God-ray flash so more glaringly
    numinous than luminous in ferocity
    Which imbued my air with viscosity
    of the thickest mistiest of animosity

    This alien and unwelcome intruder penetrating, piercing my jet black veil
    My skin burning, shielding my eyes I retrieved my carbon doomsday cache
    Though doubtful whether any could thwart this new brilliant sunlight sash
    I went about sending one last pleading piece of my charcoal dictated mail

    In this brightest, yet darkest, of final days, I had frenziedly turned to one
    Then subsequently, in my panic, with squinting oily tears, I had turned to all
    Neglected were my requests of all that roamed the black, so seemingly none
    would come lend their murky help, extend a sooty hand to help prevent the fall
    of my worshiped perfect onyx sphere, the sky’s raven jewel; a blackened sun
    A beautiful inky radiance had bled as the enveloping blanket of a sombre pall
    shielding and protecting me, reflecting the opposite realm held in basking thrall
    Despite all of the solemn, oath-entrusted allegiances that my ebony army’d won
    Despite all the unimaginably nightmarish daemons signed of the ancient scrawl
    on a peace treaty between all that dwell in dark, yet cowering they now shun
    all the otherworldly wisdom gifted kindly, knowledge sourced in mistake’s gall
    So now I am to suffer the burning, beating heart of this new fiery litten shawl
    Steeling myself for a voyage to a void, my age of starless horizon is now done

  4. Notes: 16 / 2 years ago 

    The last Bard’s Tale (Part I)

    The calm before the storm. A brief respite if you will. Regular dark angsty programming will resume shortly, believe me.

    "Come traveler, let me tell you of a forgotten realm now trapped in yore
    Please fill that chair, and into your mug this flagon’s mead will duly pour
    As this is a tale best enjoyed in good company with food and drink galore
    and by this hearth the fire will warm us and ours minds shall drift, explore
    a land that so many bards the world over did once come to longingly adore
    For, not least, that inns all across this land would fill with countless score
    of eager simple folk, the sort whom are so rarely heard to cheer and roar
    in appreciation of a poet’s well-spun tale; the kind deserving of ‘encore!’
    Sadly, this is a story which has become one no longer held in such ardor
    In fact, it’s now relegated to dusty tomes, whose perusal is quite a chore
    Even most libraries ‘cross the continent rarely hold a volume in their store
    So that is has now become a victim of obscurity like so many have before
    Even in these times, how can rich worldly legendry be considered but a bore?
    Those historians will dig for earthly trinkets but still tend to, woefully, ignore
    that real treasures are to be found in that since oft pored over elder lore 
    Wait where was I? Oh yes! This place, which has not its own existence nor
    its very name known widely, especially in our mythos forsaken age of war,
    and, were it’s preservation to be deserted, would thus be lost forever more!
    At least if not for the few stories still told of it, ones fiercely embossed for
    drama’s great effect; ‘Adventurers lo! Take heed! This you should not ignore
    Beware! my friends, only a lonely quickened death awaits you there senor!’

    Read More

  5. Notes: 2 / 2 years ago 

    Bangor

    This is a piece I wrote some while ago, in, let’s say, happier times. It is still one of my favorite poems in my collection, and it was the first narrative poem I ever wrote. Peculiarly, the narrative was kind of precognitive of what would transpire in my own life soon after. Nonetheless, I want it in my archive, for posterity’s sake.

    In lowly village, by name of Kranfore
    Quick to anger, but short of stature
    was a runt, once christened Bangor

    Made restless quarrel did he
    with those who stood higher
    A yet unborn warrior would-be
    An energy they could not retire

    Most would just titter and crow
    at imp with mischief held grim
    Elders and Chieftain did tut tho;
    “elfin boy with such insolent whim”
    And so sought to foin placidity
    in banishment to world’s brim
    a realm even he held timidly
    in hope his fiery heart might dim

    Read More

  6. Notes: 23 / 2 years ago 

    Under Exalted heels no longer (Prologue)

    A king known as roughshod
    over all the human race;
    'My liege, you are a God.'
    says a woman still of chaste
    I do naught but slap her face
    without a moment’s haste

    I reason “In my kingdom,
    treason is that word,
    for it will have no place”

    Domineering for a purpose;
    to free a world of slaves
    who’d otherwise usurp us
    with tribute paid to knaves
    who claim a measly pittance
    must be the just remittance
    to those beyond our
    graves

    Read More

  7. Notes: 24 / 2 years ago 

    Under Exalted heels no longer (Part I)

    Headquarters made of my palace,
    a citadel of our mortal malice
    First I silenced the short outcry
    of those opposing plans to defy
    With promises Hercules would die
    I bribed Atlas to let tilt the sky
    above where my castle does lie
    a testament to man’s invention
    A black bubble of secrecy erected
    to cloak the doings of my dissension
    My base of operations now protected

    Campaign started, with skyward glare
    Seeking details of their towering lair
    Probe my enemy sat in airy overlook
    Revolve round them with roving rook

    Read More

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Welcome to my humble writing blog. There's a lot to see here, if you care to explore.

FEATURED WORK:

The Last Bard’s Tale [REDUX]
An Epic Poetry series (in progress)
         Part One

You'll find Alexandria when the Dawn Commeth
A short story told from the perspective of a man facing his fast-approaching death. The narrative follows the struggles of two starcrossed lovers kept apart by wicked divine intervention.
         Chapter One
         Chapter Two
         Chapter Three

An Ode to an Abdicated Muse - A poem demonstrating my infatuation's huge capacity for aesthetic appreciation
         The Poem

A Sniper's Perch [REDUX] - A short story narrating the mechanical executions and detached ponderings and reflections of a lone Russian sniper during the brutal climax of WWII
         The Story

The Author


Wide-eyed, wild-haired boy posts poems, short stories, and various other miscellaneous creative writing.

My name is Ryan.

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