Monday, June 15, 2009

Problems with my blog ;- \

I'm having a problem with this blog. It started yesterday, just after I added my last (and ironically first) fighter poem. Now just about every other time I view my blog I get that "Internet Explored has encountered an error..." message and it shuts down the internet.

WTF?! I've never encountered this problem with blogger before -- and I have 18 blogs. I've only ever encountered it occasionally when a site I'm trying to access doesn't work for some reason. So why is this blog in particular acting that way now?

I'd think perhaps I've made too many entries, but in poking around the settings, I think that's more like a limit of 500, not 100. So what gives?

My experience with blogger is that they have no way to contact them with a question. They have generic questions that will be answered generically, but none of them seem to fit this problem.

Bill doesn't have any idea. Perhaps Will will have a clue.

Now to see if this post will actually load, or bring my blog down again. ;- \


Yep, it brought the blog down, but at least it took the entry first. Now let's see if it will accept this addition.


It took it, but it came down again. I can do this all day. I think I've made my point. Now to figure out why....

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Lord Blaine de Navarre - Fighter Poem - my first

Lord Blaine de Navarre
fallen in Caid's Crown Tourney
16 Avril A.S. XXII (1988)*

What brings a lad bedecked in chain
To win or die in drizzling rain -
xxxxHis art along?

Or is there one whose beauty fair
And gentle ways belie compare -
xxxxHer heart to own?

They say that Lord Blaine de Navarre
Espied Cassaudra from afar -
xxxxAnd favor sought.

He plied his sword against the best;
And 'though he fell, it was with zest -
xxxxThat Lord Blaine fought:

Earl Edward Ian Anderson
Who bested Blaine, and sent him on -
xxxxTo fight again.

Then Baron Sir Richard of Blackiron threw
A blow that cut poor Blaine in two -
xxxxAnd he was slain.

But when a one as Blaine does say:
"I did for you my best this day" -
xxxxTo claim the crown.

Honor and Courtesy as one
Pay homage to this Erin's son -
xxxxWho gained renown.

-- Philippa Schuyler

*Natalya was the editor

Here it is at last: my first fighter poem. Not knowing the first thing about writing poetry, I cheated and copied the pattern of a song: What Is a Youth? from Romeo & Juliet

Christine Ariadne of Gwenedd - Fighter Poem - ballad

Christine Ariadne of Gwenedd
fallen in September Crown Tourney, A.S. XXIII*


Hast thou laid eyes on the maid
With dusky tresses flowing
Whose tempered charm and strong right arm
Bespeak a blade worth knowing?

From Gwynedd's height with gay delight
This lass makes battle merry.
And stronger foes fall to her blows
Should they bethink to tarry.

But every blade - be lad or maid -
Must one day meet a better;
Or fight awry and know not why
The Fates choose to beset her.

She drew by rights two gallant knights
Whose prowess on the field
Soon put to rest in mortal test
The sword she donned to wield.

The peerless maid with practiced blade
This day saw dreams forsaken.
Yet for her part with steady heart
Her spirit soars unshaken.

The die is cast - the crown is past -
The new prince we have seen.
Yet may it be that one day we
Shall crown Christine our queen.

-- Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*Edward and Eichling edited this book

Davin Kinnard Macailean - Fighter Poem

Davin Kinnard Macailean
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XXIII*

The meadow green was tinctured red
Where Davin laid his noble head.

Esquired to one whose fame was known
Young Davin chose to seek the throne
But youthful dreams were overthrown
Where Davin laid his noble head.

His lady wept and dried her eye
As Davin chanced the wind to try
Which struck him numb and sailed by
Where Davin laid his noble head.

And then a lord from Hunting came
Who quickened to this better game
The battle brief did neither shame
Where Davin laid his noble head.

Great deeds were done e'er fighting o'er
As many good men fell before
The blows of fighters known of yore
Where Davin laid his noble head.

His gentle lady knelt to weep
And rock her lord in final sleep
His memory vouchsafed to keep
Where Davin laid his noble head.

-- Lady Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*No credit on the book, but probably one of the ones edited by Edward and Eichling

Sir Colin Wynthorpe - Fighter Poem - sonnet

Sir Colin Wynthorpe
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XXIII*


Lady: Pray, my Lord, what makes you so down-hearted?
XXXXXThe very sun doth pale to see you frown.
Lord: Good Lady, I had hopes when first day started
XXXXXOf placing on your head the silver crown.

XXXXUnto this end I took up sword and shield
XXXXAnd would have held my ground 'gainst all Caid,
XXXXBut Fate stepped forth at last and bade me yield.
XXXXAlthough I tried my best, I failed the deed.

Lady: Good Sir Knight, trouble not on my account,
XXXXXFor I would have your heart above all things.
Lord: My heart, dear Lady, never was in doubt.
Lady: What matters, then, this talk of queens and kings?

Lord: You do me honor, Lady, on this day.
Lady: 'Tis only but your honor I repay.

-- Lady Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*The book doesn't give credit, but I believe this is one of the books edited by Edward Ian Anderson and Eichling

Eichling von Amrum - Fighter Poem - sonnet sequence

Eichling von Amrum
fallen in September Crown Tourney, A.S. XXIV*

(sonnet sequence)


When martial skills and regal zeals collide,
Then one must hold dominion o'er the rest,
And make of him whose victory betide
A prince to bear the crown beneath the crest.
Many a doughty fighter plies his sword
To test his fellows with alike display,
And lays his case before the Fate's accord,
But Fortune casts her gaze another way.

Such a one was Eichling on the field,
Who strove with grace the kingdom crown to clasp,
Relying on her gifts with sword and shield,
Although the reach exceeded yet her grasp,
So bear in mind when answering Caid's call:
'Though you would win, to play the game is all.


Though you would win, to play the game is all:
The Lady of Amrum holds this thought dear
And shows her worth to others, great and small.
For equinamity, she has no peer.
This lady seeks not honors to receive
But would convey them gladly on the lord
Who bears her favour, by his lady's leave.
True friendship shows itself by act and word.

Mayhap one day Caid shall know a queen
Whose grace and chivalry may claim the throne
And then shall be an age as none have seen:
Queen in her right for all Caid to own.
When that day dawns, may Fortune grant this boon
To Caid's daughter, Eichling von Amrum.

-- Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*Dietrich was the editor

Kyr Yaroslav the Persistant - Fighter Poem - ballad

Kyr Yaroslav the Persistant
fallen in Crown Tourney, September, A.S. XXV*

A fierce wind breaks against the door
In gusts to split the wood.
And shrieking zephyrs claw the panes--
T'would enter if they could.
xxxx"Unquiet night! It gives me fright.
xxxxWhy, such a din might raise the dead!
xxxxBecalm thy nature, cease thy airs
xxxxAnd greet my lord with peace instead."
Thus speaks the lady of the hearth
To still her flighty mood.

A knock, a knock, and thrice a knock--
The door departs its frame.
And there before her stands a man
Alight as if by flame.
xxxx"My lord!" cries she and makes to rise
xxxxBut wonder checks her in mid stride.
xxxxAs he advances on the hearth
xxxxHe does not walk so much as glide.
"I've come to see thee once last time,
And to a-quit my claim."

"What talk is this?" She feigns a laugh
That hits the flags like glass.
"You've but return'ed from the fray.
My vigil ends at last.
xxxxI've set your chair before the fire--"
xxxx"I'll no more feel it's rosey glow
xxxxNor watch its embers fade to ash.
xxxxOne moment more and I must go."
He shrugs his spectral shoulders as
The light of life burns fast.

"How can this be?" she cries aloud.
"No knight's your equal, Kyr!"
"Indeed, it took a brace of knights
To fell one bogatir!
xxxxAnd now I hear the call-to-arms
xxxxThat draws all fighters in their time.
xxxxFarewell, dear lady. Fare thee well."
xxxxHe lifts his arms in eldritch mime.
His mortal raiment falls like flame-
Bright feathers on the air.

"Farewell, my lord," she whispers as
His spirit lifts o'er head
Like some bright bird that takes to flight
In whisps of gold and red.
xxxxIt makes a circuit of the hall
xxxxThen seeps like mist back through the door.
xxxxNo more contained by walls of stone
xxxxThe soul of this brave knight must soar.
Yet Catriona can but weep
Kyr Yaroslav is dead.

-- Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*Thoron was the editor


I seem to recall searching for some Russian form or folk tale to hang this poem upon. I must have found one, tho I don't remember any details.

Sir Corwin du Mont - Fighter Poem - Petrarchan sonnet

Sir Corwin du Mont
fallen in Crown Tourney, April, A.S. XXIV*

(Petrarchan sonnet)

A knight did ride forth from Abbey of Leng,
With the Hammer to stay him in his pose,
And to show him the way, the compass rose.
Black was its visage, and bright was his mien.

In silver sunlight link'd ring on ring
As if 'twere forg'd by some elvish hands
To gird him safely through these troubled lands
That foundered since the passing of the king.

To try his sword, Sir Corwin did depart
His bless'd Abbey where his soul might rest.
A higher purpose called him to the deed.

But 'though he had great spirit and pure heart
A knight with strong clain did win the test,
Think well on one who strove for fair Caid.

-- Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*Thoron was the editor

Vicount Sir David Morgan - Fighter Poem

Vicount Sir David Morgan
King's Champion
Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XXIV*

Into the hall the Lady sweeps
She does not weep
Nor duty slack,
She stood her ground when first she heard,
And took the word
With stiffened back,

"She's cold," some say, and turn aside.
"The Vicount's bride
Doth serve him ill."
They cannot know the strength it took
To wear that look
By force of will.

A final task she can't forestall
A dismal pall
Has gript the room,
As little babes she gathers 'round
To hear the sound
Of life's brief bloom.

"Red as the dawn, black as the night-
An awesome sight,
All will concede.
Thy father fought with head held high
To win or die
For fair Caid."

"Nine warriors fierce he did engage
And battle wage
To gain the crown.
But two did deal him grievous blows,
And in death's throes
He was brought down."

"Think never that he loved ye nought
Nor thee forsloth
To seek this thing.
But know thy father had a plan;
He was the man
Who could be King."

And now she kisses each in turn
And aches to learn
They understand.
At last she can let fall a tear
For one so dear:
David Morgan.

-- Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*Thoron was the editor

Eadric of Mansfield - Fighter Poem

Eadric of Mansfield
fallen in Crown Tourney, September, A.S. XXV*

The lady loosed her milk-white dove
To scour the plains of woe,
And watched it scale the silver clouds
And dither to and fro
In search of news of her true love
Somewhere ensconced below.
To lift the corners of the shrouds
If need be - she must know.

She watched the light of day grow dim
And ember into night.
And still she waited on the bird
Whom she had given flight.
Her cheek against the window rim
Grew cold from stone, and fright,
Yet stay she must to hear the word
To make her heart delight.

"He's tarried with his Abbey friends
To lift a cup in cheer.
Or mayhad he has stopped awhile
To stay another's fear.
My lord is like to give amends
When once he does appear,"
The lady told herself to while
The time that cost so dear.

The dark took on a rosy glow
That kindled into dawn,
And found the lady at her post
Now wearisome and wan.
She spied a speck and watched it grow
As to the window drawn
The dove returned with what she most
Desired to dote upon.

"What news! What news! My messenger?
What word do you bring me?
What keeps my Eadric from my heart,
Now duty's set him free?"
With flutt'ring wings the harbinger
Of sorrow made to flee,
But her cool hand was quick to dart
And catch what she must see.

Her fingers closed upon the prize
The bird loosed as he fled,
And raised it to the light of day
To see it streaked with red.
And stark the truth banished all the lies:
A lock from Eadric's head,
Once-tender heart now turned to clay.
Toline's true love lay dead.

-- Lady Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*I wasn't the editor, Thoron was, 1990 (before he conned me into doing it) ;->

A Fallen Bard - For Lord Goldwyn of Britain - Will's Poem

A Fallen Bard
For Lord Goldwyn of Britain

There is a place inside the soul
Where hope and dreams can start-
The lights of deeds shine down upon
This stage upon the heart.

For on this stage our dreams are born,
And from it they take wing;
We all can say it shapes our thoughts
'Tis true, "the play's the thing."

The one who walks the stage must be
The one who touched us all,
Who made us laugh, and gave some joy
To elders and the small.

On Hastings green, some years ago
The dream first on you laid-
Since then you've proved with words and deeds
Its flowing accolade.

For small I as when first I heard
Your boisterous voice ring out
You told the world your lesson
And we heard without a doubt.

We heard you chart and plot new worlds,
Our thirst for laughts to slake:
Where Butch and Studley demonstrate
The Laurel's secret shake.

You were an institution
Of a time and place apart:
So true it is, you graced the stage.
The stage upon the heart.

You taught us well, your tricks, your trade
You gave us in our trials.
When we performed your skits and plays
Your wit made people smile.

We gave you ninety-nine percent
Then strove to give your more;
Directed by your wit and skill,
An actor to the core.

Your cloak is draped across a stool,
Its vacant folds lay bare...
But still your spirit gives it weight-
We know your warmth is there.

And though the curtain's weight has come
And gone's your final part-
In all our dreams we know you've won
The stage upon the heart.

-- Lord Will Schuyler the Younger

...who learned from Goldwyn to "make it fun"

(c) Fall 1999

Considering the Prose Poem

Found a new form recently, a Prose Poem. It's like a concise essay. My Potrero essay is almost a prose poem. With a little more editing, it could be. It's a one-thought mini-essay with extreme word pictures, a totally enjambed poem with no line breaks. Instead it calls on alliteration, assonance, feminine rhyme, metaphor, etc.

Lately I've been reading - and writing - poetry with enjambment in mind.

Star*Line is calling for prose poems for an up-coming issue. I want to try my hand at a speculative-themed one.

Zombie Haiku

So Lin threw down the gauntlet, and this is what I came up with. Talk about deathly prose...

How can I convince you
I only love you for your brains?
The zombie's lament.

What a dish!
Life is a movable feast
To a zombie.

Tall and wan and young and jerky
The girl from Ipanema does
The zombie bassa nova.

"Drill here! Drill now!"
The energy savvy zombie
Gets with the program.

Tangle on the turnpike--
Drivers gambled with their lives;
Zombie jackpot.

Blood on the gridiron--
Zombies lurch across the field.
Hey, who moved the ghoul post?

Zombies on the rise!
The world is coming to an end!
Film at eleven.

A Hail Mary pass--
The quarterback has lost his head.
The zombie found it.

Heads will roll:
The ghoulie ate the ball.
Zombie soccer.

The zombie lolcat
Ivites the loldog to lunch:
Nom, nom, NOMMS.

I'll lose my mind
If I have to write one more
Zombie haiku.