Friday, June 12, 2009

THLord Edward the Sinester - Fighter Poem - pantoum

THLord Edward the Sinester
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XXXIX

(a pantoum)


The sun is set upon its course
As fighters take the tourney field.
They hope to win the day by force
And make contending foemen yield.


As fighters take the tourney field
Emboldened by their consorts dear,
To make contending foeman yield
Their vision for the day is clear.

Emboldened by his consort, dear
Mora in purpure and vert,
His vision for the day is clear
As Edward fights to death avert.

Mora in purpure and vert
Holds bated breath with folded hands.
As Edward fights to death avert
A griffin works to spoil his plans.

With bated breath and folded hands
—What can a lady do but pray?
A griffin works to spoil his plans
As Edward sinks down to the clay.

What can a lady do but pray
For healing balm to work its skill?
As Edward sinks down to the clay
Resolved to rise by dint of will.

For healing balm has worked it’s skill,
The boar shakes off his wounding sore,
Resolved to rise by dint of will
He charges Thorvald with a roar.

The boar shakes off his wounding sore
And grasps his sword in shaking hands.
He charges Thorvald, with a roar
He gores the Viking where he stands.

He grasps his sword in shaking hands
And draws his strength from Mora’s eyes.
He gores the Viking where he stands
And fortune grants the boar the bye.

He draws his strength from Mora’s eyes,
Basking in her prideful gaze.
As fortune grants the boar the bye
An eagle flies thru battle’s haze.

Basking in her prideful gaze
Renewed the boar, his will to win.
An eagle flies thru battle’s haze
Tusk and talon raise a din.

Renewed the boar. His will to win
Is equal to the battle clash
Of tusk and talon. Raise the din!
A screech, a roar — it cannot last.

Tho equal to the battle clash
The eagle sorely tests the boar.
With screech and roar it cannot last
And Edward lies in battle gore.

The eagle sorely tests the boar
And Mora feels the end is near.
As Edward lies in battle gore
His lady weeps for her lost dear.

Fair Mora knows the end is here.
(They’d hoped to win the day by force.)
She weeps and weeps for her lost dear—
The sun continues in its course.


— Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

... is a 15th C. Burgundian wool merchant who thinks she’s a 10th C. Viking weaver
.

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