More Found Poetry

 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

Sir Niccolo d'Angelo

Sir Niccolo d'Angelo
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney A.S.XLIX

(Celtic buried rhyme)

Crown Tourney field is smartly dressed

With pennants gay and raiment grand

As doughty fighters strut and stride

With dauntless pride across the span.

An armorer with lion’s heart

And martial art, Sir Niccolo

Lays hammer down for tools of war

Inured to gore and ructious blow.

A fellow anvil devotee

Agrees to trade him strike for strike.

The battling baron takes the round;

A sound blow brings Niccolo brike.

Retiring to a leafy glen

He’s on the mend with Ciar’s aid;

Once more he strides upon the field

A’wielding arms by fear unswayed.

A plucky knight-to-be skips forth

To show his worth to one and all.

Niccolo strikes a mighty blow!

Lo, Makandro has won the brawl.

Crown Tourney day progressed apace:

The Crescent chase that crowns a prince.

Niccolo met his royal writ:

The spirit of Caid evince.

-- Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

...weaver of words and wadmal.

Spring Crown Tourney'15

Josep de Montfort ~ fought in Spring Crown Crucible, A.S. XLVIII

Josep de Montfort

fought in Spring Crown Crucible, A.S. XLVIII

(Celtic buried rhyme)

To test their mettle on the field

With sword and shield fighters came forth:

A count and knights, lords and ladies

To assay Josep de Montfort.

The Crucible would temper all

A mighty brawl to forge a king

And though Josep did not advance

He braved each glancing blow and sting.

With blow for blow and strike for strike

The like his fellows would recall

Josep de Montfort fought for fun ~

And one he fought will rule us all.

— Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

... weaver of words and wadmal.
Spring '14

Sir Mons von Goarshausen

The Warrior's Reel
(Celtic Buried Rhyme)


A worthy ritter of the Rhine
And lady fine came to Caid.
In battle dance his sword to test
Against the best, as was decreed.

The first to pace him on the field
With sword and shield was Thorbjorn.
The doughty Horseman did not rest
Sir Mons to best, but left forlorn.

A good beginning for the knight
To show his might in martial play
For kingdom crown--if he's the one--
A regal son at end of day.

The ritter partnered Sir Kjartan,
The better man to be revealed.
In fierce combat the warriors clashed.
Alack, alas! Mons quit the field.

Sir Mons was down, but not yet out;
He strove to clout another foe.
Duke Sven--the once and future prince--
Caused Mons to wince.  A mighty blow.

The fighter's danse macabre is done
For good Sir Mons.  Some tourney day
He'll dance again--just give the word!
When lofty hurdy-gurdies play.

-- Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler
Spring'13

THLord Bryan Gard Yale

THLord Bryan Gard Yale
fallen in Summer* Crown Tourney, A.S. XXIV

(awld gywydd)

Day dawns hot and clear and bright.
All delight in pageantry.
Colors bold and pennants rare
Fill the air with bijoutry.

Ericward strides Bryan Yale
Fighter hale with sword and shield.
Like his namesake beast of old
Makes so bold to claim the field.

Warrior maiden, duchess, knight,
A fighter hight Kolfinna
Smiles yet declines to move
And proves to be the winner.

Bryan rises from the dust.
He must continue questing.
His eyes alight on Miriel,
His swelling heart attesting.

He challenges Sir Ragnar,
Their sparring proves a good brawl.
He fights well, but takes a hit.
Alas it is his downfall.

Bryan Yale and Miriel
A fond farewell accord all.
Jubilant without a care
Repair now to their great hall.

--Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

...a weaver of words and wadmal.

Sir Donald Cathchern - Fighter Poem - Celtic buried rhyme

Sir Donald Cathchern
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XXVIII

(Celtic buried rhyme)

Whose grave is this but newly marked,
Estrewn with bark and blown leaves?
Midst columbine and campion
What champion, and who grieves?

A fellow warrior and a Celt,
A lady knelt on cold earth,
And driving blade into the silt
Up to the hilt, claimed his berth.

"Rest well, good knight, Donald Cathchern.
In battle stern, in heart bold.
You made the very woods to sing;
With clash and ring, the steel tolled."

She rises with the fall of night
And sets to flight small beasts near,
Who'll make their bedding in the loam
He calls home, whom she called dear.

"Slumber away, my great black bear."
She turns with care, head dipped low.
And wond'rous sight: the moon casts down
On grave mound...a wolf's shadow.

-- Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

Lorccan hua Conchobair - Fighter Poem - Celtic Buried Rhyme

Lorccan hua Conchobair
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XL

(Celtic Buried Rhyme)

Silver plate betwixt the gold
His blazon told, he takes the field
Lorccan, fierce in name and might
Selects a knight for battle reel.

Grimm is Wilhelm ‘cross the ropes
And Ciar’s hopes the Fates implore
Lorccan, named for kings and saint
Nor faint of heart, is tested sore.

Bruised and battered by the boar
His spirits soar at Ciar’s touch
And Lorccan finds the strength of will
For battle still — he’s risking much.

A Viking with a sleepy name
And warrior’s fame strides to the sward
A harried hare could do no more
But Snorri falls as slips his guard.

Buoyed by this favored win
Now Lorccan’s day turns Sinester
Sir Edward meets him sword in hand
And Lorccan’s plan is ended here.

Ciar and Lorccan came to Crown
With good renown and mission bold
At end of day to grasp the prize
Their shining eyes, now dulled, grow cold.

— Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

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