Thrashing its shiny tail from side to side in raging rancour the rising dragon roared; a cry that caused the cavern walls’ collapse and, harrowed, our heroes’ hearts to pause.
With a weighty stamp the beast made wave the floor most furiously, causing them to fall, but rallying they raised their righteous spirits; emboldened by belief in their beautiful call.
The pious paladin picked his spot with prayer, and grasping his glaive he struck a grevious blow; but such its size, the serpent barely felt, the piercéd pupil pricked from down below.
With furious vapours it fought to seize control, enfolding its foe in flames from gaping doors formed by its mighty jaws made red and wide, that reached from rising roof to hardened floor.
Aiming at the arrogance he’d heard may leave a learing lizard lying prone, a doughty sea-dog sought to deal him doubt and at his hardened heart his words did home.
And did the dreadful dragon hesitate, distracted or entranced by tricky terms? It must be so because, somehow, the flame-licked fighter fought despite the burns.
These alliterative verses emerged from the tremendous evening’s party that formed the first half of the finale to a highly enjoyable role-playing game campaign. More may follow… (23.01.25)
I am haunted, accompanied by ghosts, the shadows from my past that lived and laughed with me, shared my life, my joys and struggles. These shades have made me who I am, they are my friends, my skin, my thinking and my guides. They aren’t to be exorcised but celebrated, recognised, remembered, invited in.
At Halloween I celebrate my friends and family that went before me. (31.10.24)
My grandmother gave me the tales of Robin Hood; it’s still safe on my bedroom shelf. I had to stop it from being thrown away and cried when Robin shot his final arrow.
It’s still safe on my bedroom shelf, this small green book that appears nondescript and harmless. I cried when Robin shot his final arrow but I suspect others wouldn’t give it a second look.
This small green book appears nondescript and harmless, but it’s always been a foundational story for me. I suspect others wouldn’t give it a second look, but it has subtly shaped the way I see the world.
It’s always been a foundational story for me, I had to stop it from being thrown away. My grandmother shaped the way I see the world, through giving me the tales of Robin Hood.
Inspired by Pádraig Ó Tuama, I decided to try another pantoum, a poem made up of right lines repeated with a strict pattern. The lines can be tweaked to make them flow better. (23.10.24)
To start, prepare a base of knights from Arthur’s Court. and a dash of Robin Hood. Stir with diced Norse legends. Leave to simmer with a Hobbit, thirteen dwarfs, a wizard and an ancient dragon. Add a sprinkling of Old Ones and once the Dark has risen, accompany with a garnish of Garner, Brisingamen and owls.
Inspired by seeing a copy of Alan Garner’s brilliant Treacle Walker at my parent’s house. The owl is in their garden. (21.09.24)
This morning’s frost looked beautiful but it bites my neck and makes my muscles ache. My fingers have become a fading white. My breath’s condensing on my nose. It drips. I brew more cups of tea to warm within but even this becomes draining, necessitating even more trips to the bathroom. I fear to look in the mirror. Will anything be there? Or is, as I suspect, the cold in truth a thirsting vampire with its fangs open in sharp and siphoning anger.
This hidden paradox Lies deep within the valley Forgotten but persisting
How can a door remain A door without its walls? But here one stands before me
I wonder if I turned Its rusty red handle What vista it would reveal?
A road of yellow bricks? A land of lingering snow? An ancient path to follow?
I reach and take the handle In trembling anticipation And opening, I step through…
This door can be found in Lea Valley on the route of one of our many local walks. I’d love to know what it was for. The diet of fantasy I grew up on fills the gaps until someone provides a probably more mundane answer… (26.05.22)
I am alone, the metaphorical Candle is glowing by my HD screen Old fashioned? Perhaps, but I wonder if My laptop is that which is out of place For in the darkness every noise is old The creaking of the building’s settling bones The patient clock counting upon the wall Imagined scratching of nocturnal mice (I know they’re there although they’re rarely seen) And in the dark our modern trappings fade Am I the ghost that haunts this bygone night? Is it my tapping that is out of place? During the night’s progression I find that Time wraps around itself until this now Is all there is, and space constricts upon The room until finally, I vanish
I’m writing this in the small hours of the night, downstairs, alone. A spooky time to write a poem. (01.04.22)
Not sure if this is done yet, I imagine I will continue to tinker with it (if I make any substantial changes I will put it in a new post not just change it here), but I think the time has come to share this draft at least. If you’re interested in such things, I’ve tried to reflect Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse, although I also found myself rhyming the second and fourth lines of each stanza.
Those faithful fellowships did meet that fearful eve In prayer and praise they sat upon familiar pews In Blythburgh they began and Bungay parish too Not knowing the nightmare now drawing near, their doom
With darkness deepening a fearsome storm developed A ghastly gale bending tree branches gustily And whipping window panes whilst whistling through the eaves Before a crash crescendoed of thunder cracking crisply
And lo! Bright lightening flashed lashing the ancient porch Burning its wooden beams, bursting apart its doors Revealing standing stark a loathsome silhouette Which set their feet like stone with savage steely roars
Its haunches high above the heads of those who turned To see its savage claws come stepping through the gloom As lifting lips revealed a line of sharpened swords And bright red radiant eyes surveyed the harrowed room
What terrible tumult amongst the heavens tore Alarms above were rung, angelic soundings warned About the biting beast bounding along the nave Growling against our God to whom good people prayed
The congregation cringed and cowered in its wake As hastily the hound ran, howling in blind rage Some swooning as if wounded, whilst swiftly it gave chase Towards the holy table the target of its hate
Between the terror and the table of our Lord With bread his broken body and wine the blood he poured Two knelt in noble thought, kneeling in contemplation Father and firstborn son in faith both highly favoured
But did the Devil’s dog respect their holy deeds? Their obeyance of the Bible? The depth of their belief? The alms they always offered? Their vigils at the altar? No chance! Instead he nipped their necks with gnashing teeth
Such was his speed and deftness that as their severed heads Fell from their lifeless shoulders to lay upon the floor In prayer their posture stayed, poised for the life to come Yet onward the cruel creature now crazed began to claw
Now, as the people trembled the tower began to shake Foundations faltering as hopes began to fade Its growing groans joining the grim beast’s hellish roar And to the dog’s dismay, downward it now decayed
With bated breath they waited to find out if the beast Still lived or had the collapse ended its wicked life This anxious pause persisted until the people saw There was no crouching creature to cause continued strife
With cautious hope they came out of their crevasses Where desperately they’d dived expecting death therein To find all saints and sinners, except the two, survived So slowly the surprise eventually sank in
With arms aloft they sang alleluias for God’s mercy Led by their priest perched not on pulpit but the floor Until the wise church warden, with gnarled white fingers pointed Towards scorched paw-print stains seared stark upon the door
Their laughter turned to longing for clarity about The fate of that fierce hound, what had befallen it? Had the collapse killed him or did his life continue? Perhaps it now persisted prowling outside they posited
Clutching his golden cross With prayer the priest with care Led laity outside To see what waited there…
As a young boy I lived in Bungay, Suffolk. One of my teachers told me the story of the black dog of Bungay, which captured my imagination and started a fascination with folklore that has persisted. It is said that in 1577 an appearance of black shuck terrorised the people of Holy Trinity, Blythburgh, and St. Mary’s, Bungay, as described in ‘A Straunge and Terrible Wunder’ by Abraham Fleming. This poem is my re-imagining, a celebration of the story and Mr Talbot through whom I heard it. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Shuck#Bungay_and_Blythburgh
Image: Public domain, Title page of the account of Abraham Fleming’s account of the appearance of the ghostly black dog “Black Shuck” at the church of Bungay, Suffolk in 1577
Ode for the Day 