The Lay of Grim the Skald: Difference between revisions
From EastKingdomWiki
(New page: ''Written by Toki Redbeard in Kvithuhattr.'' <br> ''The true story of an Eastern peer who simply wanted a night’s sleep. Events here occured at Barony Wars in Aethelmearc’s Shire ...) |
mNo edit summary |
||
Line 185: | Line 185: | ||
<br> | <br> | ||
© Michael Dixon | © Michael Dixon | ||
[[Category:Poems and Songs]] |
Latest revision as of 11:36, 1 April 2016
Written by Toki Redbeard in Kvithuhattr.
The true story of an Eastern peer who simply wanted a night’s sleep. Events here occured at Barony Wars in Aethelmearc’s Shire of Sterling Vale – June, A.S. 43
Of spear-oaks | I’ll speak no praise, | |
nor strong foes, | nor feats mighty. | |
Learn instead | of lone tale-smith. | |
I sing of | his sleepless night. | |
Grim the Skald, | grinning poet, | |
to strife went | in Sterling Vale. | |
Before clash | camped in forest. | |
Nap he sought | in small shelter. | |
Of this booth | I bring you words. | |
Woven cloth | covered framing, | |
hasty-made | home for travelers— | |
walls and floor | did fail to meet. | |
Through this space | sputtered breezes, | |
splashed the rains | in resting place. | |
Not lordly, | the little hall. | |
Weary skald | was worried not. | |
Tired man, | a mat threw down, | |
placed his bed | on bench narrow. | |
Wide the mat, | on which he’d sleep. | |
Cushion perched | poorly on bunk. | |
Sleep he tried. | Tipped his bedding, | |
balanced not | on bench so thin— | |
flipped him up | and flung him down. | |
This was not | the nap he sought. | |
Down he fell | and fast tumbled. | |
Floor striking. | Foreleg pounding; | |
“That will make | a mark,” he said. | |
Recall the cloth | came not to floor— | |
out of tent | tumbled poet, | |
landing face- | first on the ground. | |
Nearby sat | a sage old man— | |
Drinking ale, | archer Macsen | |
Greybeard spoke, | spitting-up beer: | |
“Greetings friend! | Forest’s mat is | |
soft but yet | yonder cabin | |
does possess | softer pillows.” | |
Splayed was skald, | spilled in forest— | |
moving not, | mouth contorted. | |
Macs wondered | if wounds mortal. | |
Just this once | his jokes he ceased. | |
“Rude am I,” | he rambled, beery, | |
“Is he whole | or hurt, the skald?” | |
Verse-brewer, | bloody and scraped, | |
From woods-floor | these words did speak: | |
“Fort of brains | I fell upon. | |
Hard I fell | on helm of thought. | |
Though broke not | the bones within, | |
bruises found | my fame of words.” | |
Said Macsen, | sipping his beer: | |
“Harm you missed? | Happy I am! | |
I’ll not waste | my worry and | |
mock instead, | mercy lacking. | |
‘As if drunk | you dropped on face. | |
Amateurs | at ale drinking | |
Bring us all | embarrassment. | |
To seasoned | the swilling leave.” | |
Macsen sang, | sending forth beer | |
from his nose— | not demurely— | |
and inquired, | “How do we sleep | |
when the skalds | from sky do fall?” | |
Grim arose, | gathered his wits. | |
Macs took brands | of broken wood. | |
The rune “G” | he wryly left, | |
marking spot | where splattered Grim. | |
Still are seen | in Sterling Vale | |
slender sticks | set in forest, | |
crossed so men | recall where once | |
fell the bard | who face-planted. | |
Song lingers, | loud from Macsen. | |
We listen | and wear his beer, | |
He inquires, | “How do we sleep | |
when the skalds | from sky do fall?” |
© Michael Dixon