Annie Bissett participated in a collaboration of art and poetry. One of her landscapes was chosen for a poet to create a poem.
What a wonderful project. Heck, I'm a poet and an artist. I need to give this some serious thought.
I have trouble writing about my art. Perhaps writing a poem about it might help me with this.
I mean, fighter poems are basically poems about an image of a fighter on the field, or a spinoff of some sort, if it jumps off from the device, their heraldry.
Duke Sven Orfhendur
(Englyn Penfyr)
The orfhend sloth hangs from a mighty tree:
Loth to leave his leafy shade
Thwacks Yasuke with his blade.
The orfhend sloth hangs from a mighty tree:
Spies the stalwart fighter Paul
Strikes a blow to make him fall.
The orfhend sloth hangs from a mighty tree:
Three black swans come sailing by
Arland's gaggle forced to fly.
The orfhend sloth hangs from a mighty tree:
Sven's chances now are slimmer
He's knocked down by Thorgrimmr.
The orfhend sloth hangs from a mighty tree:
Shakes his head and up he goes
Ready for more battle blows.
The orfhend sloth hangs from a mighty tree:
Gouttes of blood bedeck the field
Killian's fate has now been sealed.
The orfhend sloth hangs from a mighty tree:
Tryyggr, who would be the king
Makes Sven's doughty helmet ring.
The orfhend sloth hangs from a mighty tree:
Sven Orfendur earned his rest
Tourney day was just the best!
--Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler
...is a 15th century Burgundian wool merchant who thinks she's a 10th century Viking weaver.
Found the fanzine my Highlander poetry was in: Rules of the Game #5, 1998.
On Guard, You Fool
(a Shakespearean Sonnet)
He's cocky, brash, a tabby alley cat
With lives enough for curiosity.
He'll travel far on brains and charm and chat
(Though further yet than even he can see).
His hard, protective shell of impudence
May rub you wrong, but crack it and you'll find
He's loyal to a fault without pretense;
A friend for all time, passionate and kind.
He doesn't always do as he is told--
It's not the way a street kid looks at life--
But in a pinch he'll come through good as gold,
No stranger to the winds of storm and strife.
In tux and tie or racing colors gay:
On guard, you fool--he'll wink your heart away.
--Ellen Shipley
Setting Pen to Paper
(The travels of William Pen of Guin)What's black and white and red, you say?
A penguin in the heat of day.
Although he likes a cooler clime,
He bides in Careg Wen a time.
To view the choosing of the one
Who'll be the shire's champion.
As well. to see the one whom fate
Will pick to be protectorate.
He thinks our customs rather odd
(He's also been to Sothron Gaard),
So he has come to have a look.
When he gets home, he'll write a book:
A travelog for any pen
Who someday, too, may get a yen
to leave his cold and icy reaches
And bask on fair Caidan beaches.
--Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler
Acrobat
(play on Twinkle, Twinkle)
Flicker, flicker,
Little bat,
'Gainst the moon
In silhouette.
Riding currents
Of the night
On your insectorial
Flight.
Homing in
Upon your prey;
Hunt by dark
And sleep by day.
Hang suspended
From your bower--
Sipping nectar
At a flower.
Shy, retiring
Little beast,
Welcome to your
Midnight feast.
Shun the owl,
'Ware the cat.
Flicker, flicker,
Little bat.
--Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler
A Knight to Remember
(a silly poem)
The ancient knight (the battle o'er)
Returned bone-weary, saddle-sore,
But when his winsome lady 'spied,
His spirits rose--or 'least they tried.
In urgent haste he bade her leave
To matrimonial battle cleave.
Love-locked he did give blow for blow
'Til vanquished by that tender foe.
The battle proved too hard a test,
The knight did earn eternal rest.
He gasped his last (the furs upon)
True knight: he died with his spurs on.
--Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler
The Squire's Lament
(Celtic Buried Rhyme)
The time grows short, he hurries 'round
The battle ground with mended hilt.
The fighting has drawn to a halt;
'Though not his fault, he bears the guilt.
His lord assails him with a stare--
How eyes do glare--'though he makes haste.
The armory was quickly packed;
Who knew it lacked the part he chased?
A kindly soul advanced a clamp;
His brow grew damp, his hand did shake
As he affixed it to rattan
This fighter's man, for his lord's sake.
The erik wide his welcome heard,
A cheerless word; he answers naught.
He takes what comes for good or ill
And bends his will: a squire's lot.
--Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler
