"I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God's hands, that I still possess." -Martin Luther

Monday, April 30, 2007

The Feather Knight

Dear Readers,

I post today as I rest upon my battle-stained blade. For I have just slain the third of five giants which assail this fair land. Two days hence either the last two shall lie dead upon this ground, or I shall. In the meantime I thought I should give you a bit of a scheduling update, and some low-quality poetry.

I intend to post a lot over the summer. The following projects have already come to mind, and I shall list them in order of impending writtenness.
~"The Prayers of Benjamin Dobbs": This is mostly written, an odd tale of what happens when Benjamin challenges God and God accepts.
~IMHO: A discussion of why we find it necessary to relativize what we say by prefacing it with qualifiers such as "I think" or "in my opinion." Why does it offend people when we neglect these phrases? Should it?
~"Timothy and the Grenobles, Part III": I may be aiming too high, but I would like to actually finish a story properly. I might just do it with this one. There's a bit and a piece of this written.
~"Benjamin Dobbs and the Case of the Flying Dutchwoman" [working title]: It's up to Mac's finest private investigators to track down the muderer of a Halcyonite. The trail will lead them down the mountain into the darkest parts of Chattanooga, and end in the middle of a deadly ring of villains.
~"Benjamin Dobbs and the Ring of Power" [working title]: The discovery of a magic ring by a member of The Family prompts a series of disturbing ethical questions (is magic on-contract?) and leads to a deadly stuggle for power at Covenant.

There may be others, but those are the ones I've got in my head at present.
Now, on to that poetry. Watch for the "behind the scenes" afterwards. Oh, and there's some violent death entailed in this tale. Take care.


The knight waited
Crest feather flapping in the breeze
Gauntlet, buckle, emblem still.
A roaming sailing light, afloat
On hilltop heather
For but a moment sailed ore his
Breastplate, laughing as it played upon
His emblem and made the feather glow.
It had not left him when he let
His lance fall
Forward to couch back beneath his breast,
Tip angled up but a little
Probing the air, thick, steady.
Metal gauntlet on wooden staff holding
Let not even the knight's heart throb it.
His helm followed the lance - tilt
A greeting between knights - the feather bobbed.
Steed, enchanted, uttered not a sound,
Till with a jab of silver heels
The armored beast burst up, forward, down,
And down the hill they sped.
Another sailing light between the clouds
Marked the meeting of the two men
At the lowest point, beneath two hills,
Each descending to condescend to send
The other to his end.
Two steel heads alight with noonday fire all their own,
Bowed to each other as they passed, then
Leapt up, long wood necks straining
Each to cross armored finish-line first.
Each horse-head rippling, damp, bespangled
Lit in the light and strained forward again.
Into the light came two crests,
One feather, shadows falling
From the helms of obscured bright
Eyes - lies of lives that did not know
Their worth, their dearth to soon
Upon them.
One lance upon its mark
Could not cross it,
Clattered, shattered on the shoulder plate,
Concussion thrilling, excitement failing
As the truth of death came close,
Scored the knight as the lance had scored his coat.
His own shaft through tattered
Garment ran and ran and caught
The feathered knight through breastplaste,
Heart, and lung.
And the young man was flung down,
Lance - like tree rising from his breast.
His beast stumbled and ran on;
His breath pitched headlong
One great gasp!
Amazed, perhaps, or agonized;
Yet could it be satisfied? Done its
Work of keeping life,
Done its work of endless strife:
Ever going, ever returning.
Now it fled, blue skies yearning,
Following up the hill the vessel
Of light.
The knight rested
Crest feather flapping in the breeze.


I wrote this a few weeks back, about an hour before taking a Calculus exam, in the middle of studying. I rather suprised myself that I had that much creativity in the middle of studying, but not that I had so little meter or rhyme. I'm not really a fan of free-form poetry myself; I prefer to think of this as a choppy story. Until next time.

1 comment:

  1. one of these days when i have time to read through all of this, im going to have a lot of fun. excellent work, sir.

    ReplyDelete

A soft answer turns away wrath,
but a harsh word stirs up anger.
The tongue of the wise commends knowledge,
but the mouths of fools pour out folly.