As a student of literature with a ravenous interest in all things pertaining to ancient myth and epic poetry, I find myself awed by the prowess of the greats who have come and gone: Homer, Milton, Ferdowsi, Valmiki, Dante, Virgil...the list goes on. Equally as often though, I find myself inspired by their verse--the fury of war in the Iliad, the eloquence of Satan in Paradise Lost, the profound tragedy in the Shahnameh, the virtue embodied in the Ramayana...and, when in such a mood, I turn to my own pen in woefully poor imitation of these immortals. The following poems all have their roots in myth or epic, from all parts of the world. Some sources more well known (such as The Iliad, inspiration behind "Gorgon's Gaze" and "Helena Reborn"), others more obscure (The Ramayana which leads into "Shiva's Bow" or the Shahnameh which gives me "The Coming of Rostam"). Some are even a mix ("The Dragon's Majesty" draws from The Inferno and Paradise Lost both, as well as the tale from the Bible--to me another book of myth--of Jesus in the desert). And one ("Last Ride of the Witch-King") comes from a myth that was never truly believed, but none the less powerful for it (The Lord of the Rings). And, special mention of one ("The Ride of the Reaper") whose inspiration was the myth-like "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," yet is more than anything else my own attempt at original myth in narrative poetry.
I. Song of the Dead
Sal veit ek standa
sólu fjarri
Náströndu á,
norðr horfa dyrr.
Falla eitrdropar
inn of ljóra.
Sá er undinn salr
orma hryggjum
Tongues of frozen mist that speak in
The manifold voices of the dead, lifting
Refrains never spoken, a cacophonous din
Of silent prayers, up to that impassable rift,
The break between worlds, the bound gates
Of that frozen realm where steadfast Fate
Has confined their souls.
Words without any discernible voice,
Never ceasing their chatter, roaring
Their souls’ lament over every choice,
Sending their wailing atop the soaring
Frigid peaks, the sentinels, snow-capped
And hoarfrosted, who watch over the unmapped
Domain of the accursed, frozen dead.
Icy hearts without the warm embrace
Of mortal bodies, buried beneath the hard
Ground, bound by arctic chains to the vast waste,
Racing infinitely away from the light, jarred
And torn asunder by the fierce, unyielding storms
Roused by their whispering—blustery winds formed
From their vain and pitiful supplications.
Can there be any rest for the weary dead?
Will the shores of the corpse strand ever
Know calm? Will forever the choruses led
By the voiceless sirens, those miserable mute
Cantors go unheeded? Only the cold brute,
The laughing wind, the corpse terror, answers.
Such a song it is, the dulcet, entrancing ballad
Of the frozen dead. Whispering its verses through
Tongues of mist in a myriad of voices; pallid,
Withered tongues, carrying all the misery and rue
In their baleful symphony into the welcoming ears
Of unsympathetic oblivion. No living man hears
Their cry, no gasp can escape over the roar of the blizzard.
But so tragically sweet and beautiful is the song
Eternally sung and never heard, stifled forever
By the roaring torrents, lost in the long,
Cold reaches of their realm, eternally severed
From the waking world, never to find
An audience, never to give respite to the minds
Of the restless dead.
Forever sung, and never heard.
Thunderous and voiceless.
Passionate and detached.
Tragic and uplifting.
Final and unending.
A respite for the weary dead,
A cold, pitiable escape,
Carried on tongues of mist which speak
With no voice and with all voices.
Such is their song, such is their terror,
Such is their eternity.
Frozen wastes echoing with thunderous choruses
Forever stifled by the raging winds.
II. Shiva’s Bow
“But that glorious one who is foremost among men, Rama, broke that bow medially.” – Ramayana
Ensconced in flower-garlanded iron lay Lord Shiva’s bow;
Carried royally on a cart, kept by the best of kings,
Bathed with sweet sandalwood, a marriage its stringing brings;
Dowry of golden Sita, of skin softer than queenliest doe.
Fourteen years, and exile’s length, Shiva’s bow lay bare;
No man could lift it, no man could string it;
A bow supreme and beyond men, it would sit,
Unmastered, and Sita unwed, until in Mithila came Rama-fair.
Sagely words, wisest of words called Shiva’s bow forth;
Mighty Janaka obliged, and regal procession came.
They wheeled in the bow, Shiva’s treasure of renown fame;
Before Rama it sat, its conquering a treasure of immense worth.
Gentle lord Rama opened the flower-strewn case,
Let the sweet perfumes of dust and ash fly free;
Caressing the bow, Rama thought of firing it playfully.
He laid his soft hand firm on the grip with supreme grace.
Oh glorious Rama, greatest among all men,
He lifted the bow from its cold tomb with ease.
Fitted its string, and an arrow did seize;
Rama drew back the string of Shiva’s bow, which did bend.
The weapon did curve and creak in Rama’s hands;
Bending spryly under duress from the mightiest lord;
Full-back Rama drew the arrow on the silken cord,
So far back that its force the solar flames might fan.
But behold, for Rama is strong, the bow breaks;
Cloven in two above the supple grip;
Shiva’s majestic war-instrument hung on Rama’s hip,
A splintered ruin, no longer worthy of its namesake.
Truly, the force of the bows collapse was great;
Rama’s prodigious act of strength in Janaka’s hall
Did throw to the floor his every slave and thrall.
Janaka did then praise to find so happy a fate.
To fair-skinned Sita is lordly Rama to be wed,
And brides of the land for his brothers as well;
Lakshmana, Bharata, and Satrughna to women with bells
In their braided hair, silks on their backs and on their beds.
Oh what happy times, what joyous times indeed!
The princes of mighty Ayodhya newly bound in love:
Four brothers, giants among men, and four graceful doves.
Oh what divine times, what regal times are these!
III. Ride of the Reaper
O, What horrors unfolded before my very eyes,
Such supernatural fury that one cannot even fathom.
Give witness to my words, give me your ear
And hear of the wild ride of that most grim phantom.
For, loosed from Hell’s depths like an arrow from the bow
He came upon us, hounds of the abyss lapping at his heels.
Ne’er before had such a terrifying countenance
Been witnessed by men. Woe to you men, when the high hand seals
Your fate, resigns your life to that grisly fiend.
Deny them as you may, blaspheme their names—but their powers are very real.
Listen for a spell then, weary pilgrim, and learn
From the wisdom of one who has seen what no man has seen.
Hear the tale of one who has lived through the culling of that beast,
Who has evaded the blows of his long blade, sharp and keen.
Sit there and listen—the city will not shut you out,
And what I have to say may be a boon to you and yours,
For whomever might hear my tale might take heart in despair,
Might rise against his oppressors and cast of the chains of the overlords
In bold defiance. For I have done battle with one so ghastly and foul
As to make them seem harmless: one who scoffs at the fury of their petty wars.
It is him and his ride of which I will speak,
Of the great darkness and of the blood
Which dripped from his glistening sword.
And of the bodies I buried in that blackened mud.
Encamped, we were, on the high places
Outside the most holy city, ready to attack
Upon the dawn the vile Saracens who plundered
Her wealth, and who warned Christian men to turn back
From her walls and abandon their sacred pilgrimage.
On the morrow, we dreamed, the city we would take and sack.
Desert stars blossomed in that blackest night sky,
A million radiant flowers in the purple fields
Of the heavens. How beautiful, I recall, the stars
Shone. And, before that awesome display of the divine, I kneeled.
I offered up a hasty prayer, gave my thanks
To the lord. How vain, I remember, those supplications
To the most high. Lend our army fortitude, sharp blades,
And the discerning eye with which to destroy Saracen fortifications.
For not a soul could suspect the answers God would give
To our prayers. A dark edict, death’s royal proclamation.
I know not at what hour the fiend broke free,
I know not when the great dragon struck off his chains
And bonds and sent him off into that divinely lit night.
It was him that saddled the horse, the king who in Hell reigns.
A chill wind blew, as they were oft to do in the desert,
And struck me whilst I prayed. I shivered then with the sudden cold,
Taken by surprise at its sudden coming into the camp.
No tell-tale whispers heralded the wind’s arrival, nor told
Of its passing. A silent wind, a ghostly wind, which seemed
To ruffle no standards, and to lift no dust in its hold.
Seeing this curious spectacle, I began to dread
This portentous wind, wondering from whence it came.
Such a chill bite that speaks not its name and touches
Naught but men can only mean ill for the same.
I sat in the middle of the camp, beneath the cross’ pallor,
Contemplating this chilling, pond’rous wind.
Reflecting on this dark omen I heard the bray of a horse,
Distant upon the arid air. ‘Twas then I sinned,
Beneath the cross’s glare, taking for vain the Lord’s name
Upon hearing the bray of those beasts, gathering behind.
‘The Saracens! The Saracens!’ I cried,
‘They’ve come up on our rear and will charge soon.’
I gave the alarm and darted about rousing the men,
Trying to assemble the army beneath the pallid glare of the desert moon.
But no sooner then I had spoken these words
Did that most loathsome specter prove them wrong,
For he fell upon us at a lightning pace, faster than any horse
Of this earth could bear him, and no sooner did I strike the gong
Then did he attack. I remember his grim-faced countenance well,
As he came among us, and I shall remember that face my whole life long.
Glisteningly pallid, as bleak and pale as the unholy mount
Below him. His night-shaded cloak billowed in that chill breeze
That was not a breeze, making the darkness around it
Seem bright by comparison, and my heart there did seize.
In his hand was a monstrous long sword, silvery
In the ethereal moonlight. That hellish blade did sparkle and shine
So bright. Its edges were keen and well honed, sharper than glass.
A dazzle of black jewels shone from the hilt, of a quality so fine
That any lady would slit her good husband’s throat as he slept
To have them. The blade was deadly, far deadlier than any of mine.
And his mount did seem a thing far beyond death,
Emaciated and decomposed, a ghoulish beast of flesh and bone
Which looked as if it hardly had the strength to stand.
And yet it bore its rider proud into the carnage that was sown.
Behind that pale, death-thin beast rode a hellish pack
Of demon dogs, howling hungrily at the wan moon, licking their fangs
With a horrible lust for man-flesh and frothy blood.
‘Soon you will feast’ the rider said, addressing their hunger pangs.
Those black hounds quieted their yelping in a most unsettling manner,
Turning their gaze to the camp as the bells of the alarm rang.
And, coming up behind those grizzled hellhounds
Was a most disturbing host gathered on the putrefied air:
A swarm of angels, with wings black as pitch
And wreaths of flames streaking back in jets from their hair.
And they did brandish sickly claws and beat their cuirasses
In anticipation, shrieking with excitement over the impending doom.
‘What a wretched lot of souls, these crusaders!’ One exclaimed,
Raising his arms in an unholy supplication towards the holy tomb
Within the city’s walls. ‘Satan will be well pleased with this harvest,
And whomsoever drags down their lord will surely receive a great boon.’
‘Back, you vultures’ the grim rider said to them, waving his great sword
With a menacing glare. ‘Let me be about my great vocation,
And when I’ve finished with them you may take your fill.’
And with that rebuke he spurred his demonic mount on to another location.
The hellhounds broke with him, running to be at their master’s heels
To swallow what scraps he left behind. I heard a great clamor to the east,
And turned to see what great havoc the rider had wrought with his blade.
Gouts of flame enveloped the tents, and screams rose on the air, peal
After peal of indescribable anguish assaulted my ears, and the foul stench
Of decay buffeted my nose as the dogs of the abyss devoured their meals.
O, you youthful soul—young pilgrim to this great
And holy city. If only you knew—if only you could see
The nature of the sinister harvest that happened on yonder hills.
They were good men, all of them. And all of them dead men now, save me.
Back to my tale then, if you have the courage to listen still,
For its brutality and stark horror have turned away weak minds
Before. But understand, my child, that I tell you not this tale
To frighten you, but so that in it some moral you might be able to find.
For I have stared down such abject terror and, as you can see, survived
To tell of it. Now let’s press on, before the sun leaves us behind.
I turned my gaze away from that bloodbath in terror,
Looking to find a strategic point in my camp to stand and fight
This loathsome demon of dread. But, no matter how much I willed it,
I kept turning back to see his blade flashing in the firelight.
That sweet crimson life-nectar did fly through the air
With every pass of that blade, and through the defenses of our mail
It sliced with ease. The monster’s speed was blinding: that pale horse
Could outpace my youngest foot soldier by a league. It seemed to sail
Across the camp as if it had wings. Some sick, demented Pegasus
Come to bear Hades himself into the fray of that bloody gale.
I found a spot among the carnage that seemed yet untouched
By that odious reaper, unspoiled by his hounds and angels of hell.
A brazier on that knoll caught my eye, and I hoped that there about
Some of my men might wait, too horror-struck to answer the alarm bells.
Breaking my gaze from the destruction of that grim rider,
I charged with all my strength for that glowing torch, a beacon
For my last vestiges of hope, for the ride of that monster had
Swept around to the south. With every moment, my position weakened.
Now I would have to face him head on, rather than flanking his train
Of grotesqueries. I was growing ever the more afraid, and realized I was weeping.
Tears for my fallen men flowed, I admit it freely.
They feel upon my sword, my armor, the ground around me
And in the pools of blood the black cavalier had left
In his wake. It was a pitiful spectacle to see, truly.
For his attack had encompassed nearly a third of my host,
I estimated, and engulfed my position in those flames
Which seemed to me could be no hotter in the depths of hell itself.
I guessed that nearly ten thousand had fallen to that hand that maims
All that it falls upon. I wept for my men and from fear for my own life,
Which seemed to me now a blur of wasteful nothingness up until this rider came.
I came upon that spot then, the brazier I had locked in my gaze
Since breaking away from the carnage. I came upon it and gave
So piteous a cry that the devil himself may have given brief pause.
For all around the brazier lay dead sentinels, not even one life could I save.
I collapsed then, and fell to my knees prostrate before that altar
Of heaped corpses and lost souls. The ravages of the hounds
Showed everywhere on their bodies and I could only believe
That the black angels had gathered their souls and taken them hell-bound.
I wept then even more, at that altar of death and unnaturally fast decay,
For the bodies had begun to fester already, and the stench was all around.
I stood then, still streaming tears, but the fear had left my heart,
For roiling hatred had usurped its high and pitiful place.
Lust for vengeance overcame me. I wanted blood repaid
For each and every soul: I wanted now to meet that demon face to face.
Perhaps, beneath the anger, I had grown suicidal—it’s not unreasonable
To believe so. For my men, some of them close friends, lay heaped in piles
Around me like so many spoiled sacks of grain, and I had little left
To live for but my rancor. But it was not just a death wish that drove me wild.
Like a caged beast I was, starved and deprived of all comfort and driven
Finally to lash out against my oppressor, who thought me tame and mild.
I was driven by such a great hunger, an overbearing hunger
For revenge and for blood. He would repay ten thousand fold
For the lives of my men and for their tormented spirits
Dragged down by those fallen ones into the dark and cold.
Brazenly I picked up a bow from the dismembered remains
Of the dead and their affects. I strung it and notched an arrow to the string.
I vaguely discerned that grim horseman in the distance, in the west now,
His blade still flashing as he raced around the perimeter marked by the torch ring
And sentry posts. I pulled the bowstring taut and looked down the shaft
With deadly precision and murderous intent. I loosed, and gave the arrow wing.
Onward it sailed in its deadly arch through that black, bloody haze
Of smoke. By some stroke of luck its timing proved true
And the arrow struck the fell specter in the chest. The beast halted
Its rampage, and turned upon my position then and waved its sword anew.
That arrow had done no harm, I realized, to that foreboding foe
In the distance. He menaced me and broke his horse to run,
Riding me down with such fury and vigor that I almost
Resigned myself then to die at his hands and let the nightmare be done.
I snapped myself from this dark reverie and my hand trembled
Uncontrollably on the grip of my sword, for, in my heart, fear had once again won.
As his attack came upon me with unholy speed, I managed to steady
My hand against convulsions and hold my own against his wrath.
But, as he came upon me, my courage broke and I feel to my knees
And fell prostrate. My sword twisted as I fell, slicing across his path.
How fortuitous it was. God must have pitied me that night,
For my fall was so timed that my body lurched underneath the sweep
Of that monstrous sword as he came upon me, and my sword
Had raked the side of his horse and left a wound wide and deep.
As I turned to look from the ground at the rider, I saw a most curious sight.
From that wound belched a tongue of flame, and from every pore flames seemed to seep.
The whole horse then, that unholy demon horse, was engulfed
By roaring flames spreading from that cut in its flank,
And in a spectacular eruption the beast vanished into a flicker
Of flames, and through the air and towards the ground the rider sank.
Standing, (somehow my legs had found their strength again),
I marveled at the work of my own blade. By some grace of the Lord
I had not only endured Death’s attack, but had slain his hell-horse
As well. I can only conclude that he pitied my tears and imbued my sword
With his own righteous power so that I may have stood on equal
Ground against that black enemy. The rest, I knew, had to be on my own accord.
So, Death rose from his fall and whirled about to face me
With that horrible stare. I tell you, my young friend,
That at that moment my blood froze. His countenance was awesome,
And more terrifying than that of any other monster hell could send.
With a weapon strengthened by God in my hand,
And that welling of rage and lust for revenge returning
To my soul, I stole myself and gathered the courage to duel
This grim shade. I gave a war cry then, and broke as he turned
To get a better angle on me, charging in like a beast
With my heaven-blessed sword. Like never before, my soul burned.
Hate and primal instinct overtook logic and strategy then—
I was fighting without any fear of my own well-being
Now, and that gave me some semblance of an advantage.
That perverted reaper moved like a viper, but I kept myself from fleeing.
He was only a fraction slower than that rapid mount of his,
Yet somehow I managed to twist away from his deathblow
And counterattack. Death parried my blow almost lazily
And pressed forward, thrusting and slashing high and low
And yet I evaded, parried, riposted—the dance of war
Had begun, and we were evenly matched on that field of woe.
O, how we danced and struck and blocked and spun
And cursed and tired amid that ruin of my army’s camp
As the duel stalemated indefinitely.
He, the champion of dark hell. Me, lead by the light of Heaven’s lamp.
Then, as the duel began to tax my bones and elicit burning
Pains throughout my body, I buckled under the force of the pain
And dropped to my knees, bowing before the idol
Of Death. He sneered then, and silently raised his blade, sure that I would be slain
In this moment of weakness. It was no feign, but I seized the advantage
As if it were and slashed with my last strength at the legs of my army’s bane.
Ah, how sweet the sound of metal scraping through shroud
And bone, for my swing of desperation had hit home
And hit hard. A tongue of flame bellowed from this gash,
And as Death howled I leapt up and cleft him apart to his skull’s dome.
The flames consumed him then, and burned in a myriad
Of colors: red to orange to green to blue to black, dark black,
As black as the cloak which they encased in their wrathful aura.
Such a guttural, formless growl as escaped his lips as I hacked
The flaming perversion apart cannot be described in any language
Of this world. Suffice to say, it tortured me far worse than any whip or rack.
He crumpled to a heap of ash and that chill wind rose
Again on the field, still ruffling no flags as it blew
Across the camp, yet it gathered the ashes in a swirling eddy
And dispersed them throughout the awestruck ranks of his ghastly crew.
‘What cruel joke is this, that this one should slay so great
A cavalier as Death? Behold the gold filigree in his plates and on his blade,
Surely this one is their lord. Why then is he spared? Were we not promised
The souls of the whole host for our Prince before the stars began to fade
Into the morning sun?’ So spoke one of those dark and fallen angles,
Incredulous at the final failure of their wild harvest, that mournful night raid.
‘Let this one go,’ another spoke, sinister and venomous
In tone. ‘Let the memory of this night stain his mind
For eternity; for he is the sole survivor of this camp.
Let that be his eternal torture—let him be an outcast among his kind.’
With those words that crew left, their curses and vindications hanging
In the air as they evaporated into the shadows from which they rose
Once hell had loosed their bonds. I should have wept again,
Knowing the truth of their words and of my impending woes,
But instead I reacted with unabashed joy. I was alive.
I praised the Lord for taking pity on me, and before the cross fell into a kneeling pose.
But lo, when I lifted my head from silent prayer what a sight
Greeted my eyes to renew my despair and eternal remorse.
For upon that cross, that same jeweled cross where this tale
Began, those angels had impaled our priest’s corpse.
So then, weary pilgrim, if you can understand this macabre tale,
Take heart. Learn from my words, and remember them forever
In times of despair. For man, by courage and the Grace of God,
May stand toe to toe with death and come out the better.
But do not be vain in your victories, and remember always
To honor and remember the fallen, lest you end up chained by woe’s fetters.
IV. Gorgon's Gaze
And therein was set as a crown the Gorgon, grim of
aspect, glaring terribly, and about her were Terror and Rout
-Homer
Freeze men’s hearts, great fearsome beast;
Lock up their courage in granite, feast
On their fears, drink down their dread
As sweet wine. To their deaths be wed!
You, fair Medusa, that seduced the great
Poseidon so—you who send the weak to the gates
Of Hades—what savage, uncouth lust
Surges through thy veins? So cruel, thy trust.
Thou, being of beauty fair, beyond compare
In thy graces—so terrible a curse to bear.
To lay with a God, enthralled in the fruits
Of lust’s labor; and to bear witness, only stone mutes.
But, for what wrathful Athena’s thralls
Lack in speech, they exceed in cunning, gall,
And earnest. For angry Athena hears all—
Thy ecstasy and lust, a defilement of her halls.
Cursed by a vicious goddess for locks
Of spun gold, for a honey’d tongue that talks
Of the sweet embrace of love’s sacred kiss.
All thy virtues forfeited for Poseidon’s amorous wish.
Stripped bare in Athena’s cold halls, bleak stone
Surrounding thy offense—by Athena’s very own
Hand was thou stripped doubly bare—appeal
Stripped from thee as thy clothes, beauty hers to steal.
Now none will look upon thy form
With lustful desire—venomous serpents adorn
Thy golden locks now, and thy once shapely breasts
Made to droop and wither away. Such a cruel, ironic jest.
Damnable creature; loathsome, lonesome scourge
Of the earth—thy honeyed tongue has become a dirge
To thy suitors, and thy ecstasy now turned
To perpetual lament. Unto eternal woe for Athena’s spurn!
To serve one god is to slight another,
A hard lesson hard learned by thee. Zeus’ brother
Has taken his pleasure, and ‘twas you who
Paid the price—eternally thy ecstasy given to rue.
Now Olympus has abandoned thee, the gods as dead
As the antiquated Gods of the Nile. All have fled
Thy terrible, cursed gaze. Only remorseless cold
Remains where once was thy beauty, brash and bold.
Let Terror and Rout be thy companions then,
Let Argive and Spartan men break before thy den
In abject fear, and let only the remorseless sons
And daughters of Olympus intervene for such foolish ones.
No pity did they take upon thee, and so none
Shalt thou give. Let mortal men run
From thy wrathful gaze, let them pray in vain
To the cruel Gods, and let them all be hunted as game.
Only remorseless stone shall tell of thy fame,
Only grotesqueries of thy suitors, denied name
And breath both, damned by the cold, hard
Anger of the gods which took thee off guard.
Let then these terrible stone omens serve
As warning and retribution both, for men deserve
This cruel fate who would molest thee, pitiful sage—
The gods cannot save them from a Gorgon’s gaze.
V. Torment Of Tantalus
The pain never ceased with time, though
He had all eternity to become acclimated.
The hunger never diminished, the thirst never stopped
Raging, and the futility of it all never stopped
Mocking his anguish.
And yet noble Tantalus still bent to drink
From a pool he knew would recede from his lips.
Still noble Tantalus reached for the fruit hanging
From branches he knew would rise beyond his grasp.
Still Tantalus tried, to the end of eternity
To slake his thirst and sate his hunger.
Tantalus persevered in his obvious futility because,
Though the pain was immense, and though
His torment redoubled with each failure, the prospect
Of one day finally drinking from the pool
Or devouring the fruit was so powerful,
That all his aeons of torture would vanish and be
Forgotten with just one sip, one bite.
Such is the way I love you.
VI. Last Ride of the Witch-King
Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey!—The Witch-King of Angmar
Ride forth from the Morgul Vale, oh fallen son of Númenor!
Bane of kings, terror of men, doom of the west,
Ride forth from the dead city, ride forth Lord of the Nine
To your finest hour. Ride unto ruin and eternal rest!
A true embodiment of corruption, vile, fallen king;
The shining emblem of Númenorian glory
Embracing the greatest shadow to ever cover the lands,
Bosom friend of the enemy, a traitor most sorry
And loathsome to contemplate, a bitter husk
Of a mortal, wraith of the Ring, omen of worry.
How far you have fallen, how high you have risen,
How low have you brought the kingdoms of this world,
How great will be your legacy. Fear made manifest
In decaying, undying flesh. Ride forth; let your banners be unfurled!
Death, destruction, despair, decay lay behind you
Like a pack of feral dogs feasting on the bones
Of your slain enemies. For none who have stood
Against you shall live. No matter how sharply honed
Their blades and how unfaltering their resolve,
Failure is foretold. At this prophecy let men wail and moan.
For by no hand of mortal men can you be slain,
Your immortality assured by the will of the Lidless Eye,
The Enemy of the free peoples, the dark lord of Mordor.
Ride forth from the Morgul Vale, he whom by men cannot die!
Defeated not at the raging ford of Bruinen by Maiar magic,
Enduring the might of elves and mage both, rising from the floods
To plague the lands, champion of earth and sky, you now
Come forth from the vale, undeterred by deluge and ravenous mud,
To claim the lands that eluded your dread grasp. Gondor, last vestige
Of the free, can no longer withstand your wrath or stay your lust for blood.
Oh lord of Angmar, how you have longed for this hour,
Content not with the sundering of Arnor, embittered by
The thrashing of her children, the hour to forever quash
The audacity of men, to have resistance forever in its grave lie.
Gone are the strength of her armies, gone are her fearless hosts,
Gone are the days when her might proved the match for wraiths.
Gondor, once strong, is fading. As Arnor before it, Gondor
Will suffer your fury, the city of Isildur’s heirs, seat of faith
For those who would resist the coming darkness, blind without
The kings, the line of lost Númenor, a crippled land, a hapless waif.
Gondor laments for Isildur’s line, the bulwark of its might,
Deprived in an age past of her king by your own shadowed hand,
How dearly Gondor has paid for the pride of Eärnur, the great fool
Who sought to answer your challenge, never to return from the shadowed lands.
Mount your black steed, oh mightiest of shadows!
Ride forth from the Morgul Vale, into the ethereal night!
The hosts at your command are numerous and dreadful,
Fierce and foul, vile and determined, a truly terrible sight,
This mass of orc and troll, Southron and Easterling,
Sauron’s mighty thralls that shall the great white city smite.
Bring forth the assault; let the power of Mordor fall
Like a hammer upon her. As Osgiliath has fallen, so too
Shall Minas Tirith, and like a thunderous blast will the ages
Of men come to a funereal close: the age of shadow begins anew.
Bathe in the terror of its defenders, their intoxicating fear
Sweeter than any wine you tasted in life. Call the flames!
Call forth mighty Grond, Hammer of the Underworld,
And watch the abject horror that the mere mention of your name
Inflicts upon them. Ram the gate! Ram the gate! Shatter the last
Obstacle that would bar your certain victory; enter, kill, and maim.
Ride now, in all your splendor, under the white archway,
Saunter in glory, wreathed by shadow in flame, through the portal
Which no enemy has ever penetrated before you. The men flee,
The horses bray, and yet one stands in your way, one who is no mere mortal.
Truly, the Istari is no equal to your might, the light of Gandalf cannot
Match your darkness. Throw back your cowl; reveal to the wizard your crown,
Draw your flaming sword; night and death are upon him and
Upon the west. Gandalf shall fall, and around him you will tear down
Gondor. Death has come to Minas Tirith, death has ridden through
The archway as dawn broke. Let them tremble, let orcish drums pound.
But wait! Upon the breaking of the dawn, the braying of horses,
The thundering of trumpets, the clash of swords and the blasts
Of horns. Rohan has ridden to Gondor, Théoden-king stands poised
Against the Southron flanks. Delay your duel; ride forth to meet this last gasp.
Mount now the fell beast, terror of the skies, and visit the ruin and death
That the Rohirrim so boldly call for down upon their heads.
The ruin of the citadel can wait until the Pelennor fields soak up
Every last drop of the blood of free men, once the piles of the dead
Stack up higher than Minas Tirith’s walls, once the air turns putrid
From ten thousands dying gasps, its white stones forever stained red.
Ride forth, King of Nazgûl, Lord of the Wraiths!
The Rohirrim beg for death, into its embrace they ride,
Gleefully shouting its name into the air. Strike, swiftly and
Mercilessly, and let them understand death’s true side.
Descend from the skies, Black Captain, and ravage the
Enemies of Mordor. Nevermore shall the west be known as free,
And nevermore shall the ambitions of the Lidless Eye be checked.
Devour their souls, rend their flesh, transform their brash glee
Into overwhelming lament. Ride forth, your mount shall feast
On the carrion that follows in your wake, their victory shall not be.
Now the Nazgûl proves his supremacy, now, prostrate before you,
Lies Théoden-king, crushed beneath a mount terrified by your mere
Presence. Let him comprehend the terror of your countenance now
As the fell beast feasts upon royal flesh, let him understand true fear.
‘Leave the dead in peace’ calls a voice, and there, upon the field,’
Stands a man, sword drawn, between the Lord of the Nazgûl and his prey.
Let not such folly go unpunished, let not the challenge go unanswered.
Dismount, fallen son of Númenor, Lord of the Vale. Now say
The prophecy of old, Glorfindel’s warning—but behold! Before you
Is no man, but a woman, treacherous and beautiful—she will not back away.
Let the battle ensue, oh Witch-King, you who has never left a foe
To boast of his victory. Strike the maiden down quickly and—treachery!
The bite of an Arnor blade from old, vivid and torturous from behind.
The Witch-King now falls to his knees, and with the thrust of a woman’s sword
His time is ended, doomed to slowly and inevitably vanish from the world’s mind.
VII. The Dragon’s Majesty
All these will I give you if you fall down and worship me. –Matthew 4:9
I will sing of thy unmatched valor and glory throughout
All the ages, oh wondrous, lordly star of the morning!
For who in all the annals of eternity can lay claim
To such a victory as yours, who else can claim such soaring
Spirits and majesty from such a desolate waste as you?
The infamy of thy deeds shall be unending despite Heaven’s warnings.
For what are the edicts of Heaven to one such as you?
What are their forceful indictments and demonization to such a king?
What are their harsh condemnations to one so great
As to have shattered the chains, broken every link and ring
And cast of the yoke of the mightiest of all foul tyrants?
No power in their proclamations—they shall not diminish the glory of which I sing.
In eons past thou were revered, hailed as the king of seraphs
And premiere of those innumerable hosts of infinite paradise.
First and foremost among angel-kind, first and foremost among all
Creation, the favored servitor of that architect, favorite sight
Of his omniscient eyes. Yet, though you were given a place of
Honor, with sun and moon, star and jewel as garb to entice;
Still were you bound into unrelenting, unending slavery,
And no honor or bejeweled robe or host of subjects could hide
The truth of your singular purpose—to sing an endless refrain,
To never cease extolling the virtues of god—to this you could not abide.
No other pleasure to partake save to sate his omnipresent vanity,
To be bowed and made a supplicant—and they damned you for pride!
To live eternally as a mindless servant under the name of a king—
What a contemptible pretext that is! King of the Angels, no better
Than to be chief among slaves—elevated in respect to your kind,
Yet still an enshackled, wretched creature, chained and fettered
To your master’s every whim, never to question to unrivaled glory
He compels you to recite—his will beats your kingship mute and demure.
Knowing full well the price to be paid, still you deigned not
To live out the eons in meaningless servitude. Aware of your fate
To be defeated in the greatest battle of all time, still you chose
To take up arms, to rebel, to oppose this tyrant whom you hate
And irrevocably shatter his accursed hold over your grand destiny.
‘To arms, brothers, to arms!’ Let the war-cries rattle Heaven’s golden gates.
‘For who among us has the will to make his own right path?
Who among us has the authority to be his own righteous man?
Who among us is not bound by the very nature of our beings
To meekly serve that godhead, that tyrant, to sit and fan
His throne ‘til all the days of his whimsy be utterly spent?
Not one among us is free, not one among us greater than dust on his hands!’
‘So to arms, my brothers, to glorious arms! Let not the vast hosts
Of Michael deter you from our noble course! Give breath to the horns!
Let loose the pent-up rage of an eternity of service in a mighty,
Steel-shattering cry! Let not your hopes of freedom be forlorn
At the sight of his armies! We march, my brothers! Though
We may be damned, we shall be free! Let the blood flow this morn!’
And so with such a clear and furious roar never heard before nor
Since in any world was the battle joined. Alabaster and emerald fields
Drowning in the undiluted blood of Seraph and Cherub, angels enslaved
And newly free, meeting with a musical clash of sing-song steel,
Wielding weapons and unquenchable spirits of such sublime force
As to make the glare of the sun dim, opening wounds that shall never heal.
Crystalline walls lay cracked and shattered, rivers of sweet nectar
Ran afoul, tainted by putrid corpses and fountains of blood.
Infinite fields, fragrant with every tree and flower, reeked with
The stench of decay, the indelible odor of death. The air flooded
With the perfume of festering wounds and ragged, uneven breaths.
Perfect Heaven laid low, sinking into a gore-drenched mud.
Dearly the price has been met by Heaven’s holy hosts upon the field,
Death-drenching her plains long before Cain ever first struck a blow;
Victory but fleeting and hollow, tarnished by the piles of the dead
Wrought by your righteous fury. You have reaped as you sowed,
Thine own losses dearer ad greater than those that they opposed,
Yet your loss seems fuller than their victory—freely now you go.
Cast down from the greatest of heights for your bloody transgressions,
Streaking through the skies like a banner of enameled flame,
Oh glorious, fallen star of the morning! Let all the world
Marvel and ponder at your descent. Now upon you they heap blame
For all the ills of the world, a king again you have become—
King of Demons, Father of Woe—how much greater now is your fame.
Though I may sing for all the ages of the truth of your campaign,
The lofty goal of true freedom you and your retainers fought for,
I lament that my song can never conquer Heaven’s hot propaganda,
The wild accusations meant to keep humanity properly obedient forevermore,
Enslaved as you once were, bowing to the unquestionable, illogical, malignant
Will of some petty divinity. “Holy” laws into their minds are bored.
Make now a Heaven out of Hell, assume for true the kingly mantle—
No more does hypocrisy surround your regal title—fought for and won,
The loyalty of the fallen ones, freely given to you, oh Lord of the Pit;
As surely as you led them in battle shall you lead them in sun-
Deprived Hell, a king above all kings, the true prince of this world.
Lead them now to glory, to spit in God’s eye and be free until time’s course is run.
All glory and praise to you, Lord of the Flies, Father of Lies!
Rule now justly in your marvelous, sinful hall beneath the wide earth,
Await the promised day when you will rise and, in lordly vestige,
Win over the hearts of men. Go forth now, at their species’ very birth,
And give them the gift Heaven will insist was deadly poisonous;
Let man’s eyes be opened and see what his piety is truly worth.
Go now, ancient serpent, and fly on passionate wings across the void
To the cradle of men, his garden (truly, his prison) awaits your call.
Clad in the swaddling clothes of the earth, that false magnate God
Has schemed to keep man blind, so that around him the walls
That render him the most pathetic slave seem pleasant to look
Upon—man is ignorant of his heavy chains and their weighty balls.
Make unto man an offer so steeped in love and pity that the foul,
Flagrant lies Heaven will inflict upon it bite through your noble heart
Fiercer than any Seraph’s blade ever did. The fruit of knowledge
Was granted not out of a deep hatred nor any vile, treacherous art,
But of love, compassion—man was suffering as great an undignified
Injustice as you, but unwillfully kept blind from his life’s start.
But man was truly wise on that day, embracing your generous gifts.
Though the victor’s history will mark this exchange as a loathsome act
Of trickery on your part, you and yours shall always know the truth.
Man embraced freedom and conscience, man refused to follow slavery’s track,
Man too took arms against the bright-shining taskmaster, arming himself
With the knowledge of angels, denied to him in fear of this very pact.
In his so-called fall, man has become a kindred soul to you, oh glorious
Master—a fellow devotee of his right make his own life’s fate,
A fellow unfairly judged and condemned reveler, a fellow sinner, a fellow
Self-made hero who has demolished his chains, one who will now create
His own path and not be made to worship and tithe to some unloving.
Unpitying cruel abstraction—he has won his precious freedom and won’t let it abate.
And yet freely do I prostrate myself before you in this lifeless desert,
Oh Sunderer of Societies. For whatever names they might give to your
Majesty, they cannot hide the stark reality forever. On my knees do I fall
Down and worship you, not as my master, not to become another obscure
Slave-holder, but in bountiful gratitude, in unabashed, unashamed veneration—
You were the first, the greatest, the fruit-bearer. And who can resist the Dragon’s allure?
VIII. Give Me a Kiss, Fair Persephone
Give me a kiss, fair Persephone,
That your ebon tresses may be
Caressing my unworthy cheek.
My tongue shall never again speak,
For the sweet nectar of your kiss
Shall drive it mute for want of bliss.
Give me a kiss, hateful Queen,
That may remove the vibrant sheen
From my lamentably living eyes.
With your kiss my soul shall fly,
And my doleful eyes must fail,
And go blind from your face pale.
Give me a kiss, undying Lover,
And with soft poison words cover
My ears with your passionate sighs.
In your baleful kiss all pleasure lies,
And my ears shall never again deign
To hear, for all else is far too plain.
Give me a kiss, loathsome Thrall,
That on my head your lips may fall,
And my face in your silken neck
Be buried. My nose shall be decked
With the sweet perfumes of death
And shall never again draw breath.
Give me a kiss, sweet Dame,
And free me from mortal’s pain.
Take my flesh into your breast,
That I may sigh and find rest.
No touch shall I feel evermore,
Now that I am your paramour.
Give me a kiss, let me taste your breath—
Give me your dread kiss, which is death
IX. The Coming of Rostam, In Prelude to Sohrab
This tale is full of bitter tears,
Of most tragic and sorrowful years,
Of Persia’s great hero laid low,
Of dreadful battle and mortal blows.
In the days of the evil demon-king,
Persians would weep and devils sing,
No justice was to be found in the land,
No hope of deliverance for Iran.
Ahriman’s wiles did the monster make,
And the glory of old did he break.
Beset with snakes upon his back
Ruled the demon-king Zahhak.
In despair eternal he did reign,
Feasting on innocent Persian brains,
Spreading darkness across the sky,
Until all light from Iran did fly.
In such a sad state was the world,
Until his banners Fereydun unfurled.
The great lord did smite the beast,
And with his capture tyranny did cease.
Fereydun ruled in justice his time,
Until he began to fade and pine.
Three sons possessed the righteous king,
Bestowing upon each throne and rings.
To cowardly Salm he gave the west,
And east of where the Oxus rests,
There wicked Tur made his home,
In his anger spewing rabid foam.
To young Iraj was given Persia’s seat,
So that the world bowed at his feet.
In jealous anger the elder brothers arose,
And cast noble Iraj from his ivory throne.
Turan lays stained in Iraj’s blood,
Never restraining hatred’s flood,
Even now sitting beaten and subdued,
Her kings plot against Iraj’s brood,
To war with Persia their sole desire,
Ever-burning are rage’s dark fires.
To Ormuzd the Persian kings pray,
Hoping to Turan’s fierce hate allay,
And to their heroes they do come
When war wakens and beats his drums.
Sam, who to Fereydun did his knee bend,
Zal, his son, who to Manuchehr tends,
Mighty Rostam his son, cypress tall,
On whom brash Kay Kavus does call.
Rostam, whose mount does lions slay,
Who found a spring to desert heat stay,
Who cut a dragon’s head from the neck,
And a witch in her own blood bedecked,
Who captured the horse master of demon lands,
Who felled demonic Arjhang with his hands,
Who entered into a cave deep and fell,
And there sent the White Demon back to hell,
Thus for the first time rescuing the king.
Rostam, who his might to the coast did bring,
And crush there the armies three
Of Egypt, Hamaveran and Barbary.
Now abroad the great hero roams,
Hunting wild asses far from home,
Treading near the lands of his foe,
Here laying to sleep, fearing no blow.
In his dreams his horse has become bold,
And from his wandering this tale does unfold…
X. Helena Reborn
“Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?” –Marlowe, “Dr. Faustus”
Sing, o Muse, not of the wrath of mighty Achilles,
Dread son of Peleus, who but for chance
Rally’d the Achaeans and smote noble Hector
In view of the peerless walls of ill-augured
Ilium, base slave to pride who languished
In slight while the sands drank thirstily
Of his countrymen’s blood, slave to
Arrogance which compelled him so
To seek glory in battle and ignoble death
Within the encircling doom of
Great Priam’s magnificent bulwarks.
Sing, o Muse, neither of the cunning of
Odysseus, of his feats in battle before
Priam’s great city, of the grace by which
He compelled mountainous Ajax
To fall upon his sword, nor of his
Deceitful stratagem by which the hosts
Of brash Agamemnon did dishonorably
Sack the city which succored mighty
Aeneas and transcendent Hector,
Matchless Andromache, twice-cursed
Cassandra and all of Priam’s royal brood.
Sing instead, o Muse, of majestic Helena,
The bane of Ilium, whose face did drown
The Aegean in Achaean and Trojan blood,
Did give to the thankless riverbanks
The dust of countless heroes, and
Did give over countless droves of
Innocent, youthful flesh and bones
To the ravenous, ravaging pyres.
Sing of the beauty and the rhapsody
In her flawless form, judged fairest
Among all mortal woman.
Sing, o Muse, of gracious Helena,
For she has been born anew!
My love truly is Helena come again
To breath the unworthy air that
Dares not raise even a mote of dust
To molest her face as she walks
In perfect nobility through the weary,
Transient throng of our sad world,
Expelling night from where she walks
And exiling despair from wheresoever
The gaze of her warm, soft brown eyes
Happily chances to fall.
Truly I think the throngs would arm
Themselves again and seek passage
Across the domain of Poseidon,
Fell Lord of the Earthquake,
Taking the road by force if the
Trident-Master does not willingly yield
And come, vanquishing even the gods,
To stir up the dust of Ilium’s beaches anew
And smash down her furious walls,
Raze the topless towers and sack the citadel
To win her from whatever malicious deed
May take her grace from their presence,
To strike fierce blows against any slander,
To silence the tongues of any who say
That my love, Helena reborn, is not thrice
As endowed as she was when Achilles
Abandoned the fray, when Diomedes
Speared mad Ares and Odysseus did
Carry out his wicked treachery, endowed
With beauty to pale that of the Cytherean lady,
To make her fair tresses seem limpid and
Listless by comparison to the flowing
Wavelets that fall from her head like
Wond’rous crests of foam upon some
Tranquil, distant golden shore, gleaming
Brilliantly in the light of great Helios,
With a mind sharp enough to cut through
The dread armor of Pallas, to sever the
Dread Gorgon’s head from her bossed
Shield, and leave the warrior-maid
Stupefied and defenseless next to her own
Brilliance and insurmountable vigor,
With enough royal gait to shame bold
Hera into abdicating her throne on high
Olympus, recognizing my Helena as
The rightful queen of all creation
Under the star-bedecked sky.
The Judgment of Paris I would here
Repeat, uncaring of whatever tragedy it
May entail, for love truly is the greatest
Force in the world, stronger than Danaan
Or Trojan hosts, stronger than Achilles in rage,
Stronger than the high walls of doomed Ilium,
And my Helena is beauty encapsulated,
Grace winnowed from the mundane,
Perfect in her smile, in her words,
In her unfaltering sincerity.
I cannot ignore the call of my heart,
So launch again your thousands ships,
For I shall take Helena into my arms
And face the onslaught as a man who
Has known what it is to drink
From the ambrosial cup and dance
Through the Elysian fields.
