Post by silentreflection on Jan 4, 2007 20:43:37 GMT -5
This is a poem I wrote... I also go under the name of Ciaconna and I think I may have posted this poem somewhere under that name... If not this poem, perhaps another (I like writing poems). Critiques are great, I know some of my meter isn't very consistent. All right, all of it XD
The Bard
To the village inn a stranger came,
a man who would not give his name,
bringing crystals of winter storms,
saying he was seeking warmth.
At last he dried as he sat by the fire,
and he drew from his coat a mahogany lyre,
and as he plucked each silvery string,
he raised his head and began to sing.
"Come all to hear what I shall say,
Quickly come, do not delay.
Hear the legends and the tales,
words kept alive when all else failed.
The victors and conquerors, their stories hear,
and the oppressed who lived in fear.
Hear the tales of warriors brave,
and the lives of those enslaved.
Listen to legends of distant lands,
where snowy mountains met desert sands,
know the names of rulers great,
know of those who challegend fate,
of knights who crept in a dragon's lair,
of heroes strong and ladies fair,
of oceans that brushed fingertips,
of far off lands that embraced and kissed.
And, of course, of artists hear,
whose works could cause brave eyes to tear,
bards who painted with their words,
then sang their art to noble lords."
And so he spoke, and so he sung,
through the night 'til rose the sun.
Ah, what stories did he tell!
Of shining kingdoms that rose and fell,
of knights in armor did he sing,
of those who dared to challenge a king.
His song did end, from his chair he stood,
and he drew up his coal-black hood,
and though the villagers begged him to stay,
he would not and he wandered away.
All the villagers remember his tales,
words kept alive when all else failed.
A glimmer of light within the dark,
the wintertime song of a lark,
tales passed down from age to age,
legends of deeds both heroic and brave.
But though even children know of his art,
very few villagers remember the bard.
The Bard
To the village inn a stranger came,
a man who would not give his name,
bringing crystals of winter storms,
saying he was seeking warmth.
At last he dried as he sat by the fire,
and he drew from his coat a mahogany lyre,
and as he plucked each silvery string,
he raised his head and began to sing.
"Come all to hear what I shall say,
Quickly come, do not delay.
Hear the legends and the tales,
words kept alive when all else failed.
The victors and conquerors, their stories hear,
and the oppressed who lived in fear.
Hear the tales of warriors brave,
and the lives of those enslaved.
Listen to legends of distant lands,
where snowy mountains met desert sands,
know the names of rulers great,
know of those who challegend fate,
of knights who crept in a dragon's lair,
of heroes strong and ladies fair,
of oceans that brushed fingertips,
of far off lands that embraced and kissed.
And, of course, of artists hear,
whose works could cause brave eyes to tear,
bards who painted with their words,
then sang their art to noble lords."
And so he spoke, and so he sung,
through the night 'til rose the sun.
Ah, what stories did he tell!
Of shining kingdoms that rose and fell,
of knights in armor did he sing,
of those who dared to challenge a king.
His song did end, from his chair he stood,
and he drew up his coal-black hood,
and though the villagers begged him to stay,
he would not and he wandered away.
All the villagers remember his tales,
words kept alive when all else failed.
A glimmer of light within the dark,
the wintertime song of a lark,
tales passed down from age to age,
legends of deeds both heroic and brave.
But though even children know of his art,
very few villagers remember the bard.
