Oh well, I tried. I shouldn't have gotten so behind; then I might've been able to manage it. (I took a break last week too, which probably didn't help).
Better luck next year!
So it's just past midnight on May 1st as I write this, which means NaPoWriMo is over! And sadly, I only managed 24 out of the 30 poems I needed. :(
Oh well, I tried. I shouldn't have gotten so behind; then I might've been able to manage it. (I took a break last week too, which probably didn't help). Better luck next year!
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A rondel prime.
Harvest Song A Mountain Song Grab your sickle and grab your rake, Up with the sun for the harvest time. Get ready the hillside fields to climb, The fruits of the year to seek and take. Help with the harvest for your family's sake, It has to come in, whatever the clime. Grab your sickle and grab your rake, Up with the sun for the harvest time. The corn and the wheat off the stalk must break, The fruit, if you have it, should be free of grime, And vegetables be ripe and in their prime, If a good harvest we hope to make. Grab your sickle and grab your rake, Up with the sun for the harvest time. This is a terzanelle, a 19-line poetic form that combines the lyricism of terza rima (a form created by one of my favorite authors, Dante) with the repetition of the villanelle (a French poetic form). I had never heard of it before today, so this is my first attempt at one. It was very hard to do.
Philip is a wizard who is Laina's mentor on her quest. He and his apprentices take the place of the three priests who accompany the nuns in Chaucer's text. Wizard Song Taught by Philip to his apprentices and Laina on the journey Glory to our goddess lovely and pure Who dwells up high in the heavens above Yet deigns to hear the prayers mortals pray. She cares for us with her unfailing love, Yet chides us for the things that we do wrong, She who dwells high in the heavens above. To praise her we wizards sing out this song, Like a mother she raises her children. So she chides us for things we do wrong. But repentance the goddess shall not shun, And guidance to the right path she offers, Like a mother she raises her children. Pious desire in hearts she stirs, That we might worship her of our own will, For guidance to the right path she offers. Therefore let your fears and worries be stilled. Glory to our goddess lovely and pure That we might worship her of our own will, Who deigns to hear the prayers mortals pray. This is also from the main collection and is an unfinished version of a sort of intro to the story. Unlike the High Queen's Tale, it stays in meter.
I have also put this under a "Read More" break as it is rather long. This is one of the main poems for the collection. The High Queen of the People of the North is the teller of the tale, and is meant to be an equivalent to The Wife of Bath. It is at the moment unfinished. The portion posted here covers what would be the prologue to the Wife's tale in Chaucer's work, plus a little after.
This tale starts in the traditional iambic hexameter (12-syllable lines) used in the rest of the collection, then deviates to free verse because I needed to figure out the story and the meter was hampering me from doing so. As the poem (as it stands) is quite long, I have put it under a "Read More" break. This poem concludes the Poems of the North (for this challenge anyway). This poem, like "Floating Cities," is more serious even though it's a limerick.
Courage To take courage in this time is a must A necessity for those under oppression thrust We must rely on the brave Our souls all to save And in the gods' power trust. Having done poems for this set on husbands, wives, and marriage, it made sense to do one on children.
Children To bear children is certainly a gift, And yet if they misbehave they can cause a rift A chasm so vast and deep That if you hope your children to keep, You will have to make sure they go not adrift. This is meant as a sort of companion piece to "Husbands".
Wives Men, mind well who you take to wife For a troublesome woman is the bane of life Unless you do as she please You shall never have peace Nay, nothing in your house but strife. Flight
Flight from city to city sounds grand With the wind in your hair and the sky close at hand But the wind here is thin and rough To endure it for long is tough Its pain only our people can understand. Worship
To the gods give glory we do With our rituals and offerings, 'tis true Yet they seem uninclined to hasten Our sins for to chasten So why do we our sins rue? |
AuthorHello. My name is Reneé D. Le Vine. I am a writer of speculative fiction, a weaver of worlds and the fates of those in them. I want to impact people, to enchant them, and to get them reading. My favorite poets are Byron, Shelley, Keats, Emily Dickinson, and Shakespeare. ArchivesCategories |