The Winter Throne

I found this yesterday - hilariously enough, it's a poem I wrote when I was around fifteen, and playing about with Tolkein-style mythological imagery and new rhyme-scemes. I think I was aiming for a personification of winter. I don't think I quite managed it. Also, note the fifteen-year-old angst and complete failure to maintain the rhyme-scheme in the last verse. But, you know... I was fifteen, and we need twenty three posts.

The Winter Throne

He came again this morning; full
Of bellicose belligerence;
His cloak was choked with ice and wool
From creatures beyond recompense.
He thundered through, with his Host;
A seething, breathing, heaving mass
Of diademed demonic class
That each sought to destroy the most.
They broke off branches and froze the grass
And left us with our ghosts.

They came again this morning; out
Of frozen hideouts further North;
Where creatures thick with scaly clout
Hunt and feed as men come forth.
The night is all eternal there
In older, bolder, colder lands
Where Shadows flee the sun’s soft hands
To breed the ice that fills their lairs.
They tear down trees, turn earth to sand
And horde their ill-gained wares.

He came again this morning; aimed
For the Mountain Citadel
To renew his Yule-tide game
Of recreating Earthly Hell.
He saw the walls and tore them down
In rumbling, crumbling, tumbling stone.
He entered purposely alone;
He came to reclaim his crown
And gain again the Winter Throne
To draw the Summer’s frown.

He killed again this morning; all
The townsfolk’s children gone away.
We screamed and swore to take the walls
Of the Citadel come day.
The gates we burned in fire and flame;
A whirling, swirling, twirling pyre
That swarmed and warmed the Winter Sire
Until, screaming, out he came.
We stoked the blaze and urged it higher;
And grieved his very name.

He died again this morning, in
Ice and fire, rage and hate;
We scattered him to all four winds
And drove his Host back from the gates.
There we stood, together, alone
In grieving, disbelieving pain
As the snowfalls turned to rain
And promised Summer would atone.
We cried; awaiting his regaining
Of the Winter Throne.


Also: I totally managed to get a line of cynghanedd in there. Points to whomever sees it first.

Do not pity me

One day, whilst I was dreaming,
About to wake, or so ‘twas seeming,
I read a poem in my mind,
Which once awake, I could not find
In textbook or collected anthology.
So without adieu or an apology,
I took up pen and began to write,
The paltry verse within your sight…


Do not pity me when I am gone,
For I know what is to come.
I have seen the door and through
Into the place beyond.
It is a place in the twilight,
A dreamscape, remembered only in glimpses.
So do not fear, my friend,
but come to accept, like I have,
that this thing must be done.

Early Poetic Efforts (with some prose)

*[ Before I start uploading my story, I thought I might as well upload a backlog of writing from when I was a young ‘un. I can’t find my prose work though- which is frustrating. I would particularly like to find my prose work on a novel me and Quoth the Raven wrote when we were teenagers. I imagine it is full of angst. However, for now, here is everything I found scribbled in a pad which no doubt was about to be lost to recycling. Mostly poetry, often unfinished, it gives a sense of the way I think, if not necessarily of the way I write prose. This may not be a good thing. ]*

Study: Beach

*[ Practice describing a beach: this is entirely descriptive practice- no real story. Its helpful for me to look back on if I want to think about the experience of being on a beach, but not a great read. ]*

With every footfall, multitudes of little pebbles cascade down the slope. The harsh crunch and rattle of the stones hitting and sliding over each other seems at first to be the only sound on the empty beach. Then slowly, the gentle sound of the folding water filters through; sometimes breaking with a sudden and noisy rush, other times with liquid rippling that barely moves the surface. The sea becomes a constant presence that draws the listener towards it.

The cool touch of the salty wind is refreshingly clean; it plays about the face and lifts the hair before spiralling away and up to lift an airborne gull. With seeming ease the fierce-eyed bird floats above; but then with a burst of speed and energy disappears from sight, leaving only its harsh cry as evidence of its continued presence.

Study: Botulism

*[ Poem to consider the effect of botulism on Cardiff gulls. A poor effort really, but significantly unusual compared to the style of poetry I later adopted to be worth a mention. ]*

The carefree flight
Of the lone white gull,
Who couldn’t know,
Nor care,
For his impending plight.

Across the murky sea
In a smoke stained land,
The dead mount
And rot
To draw the hungry.

But now his muscles freeze,
He starts to panic
The dead meant nothing,
Not then
Nor this insidious disease.

The laboured flight,
Of the infected gull,
Ends Abruptly.
For him,
The poison won the fight.

Study: Depression

*[ Flatholm is a depressing place. In my final written piece I had to write about my impression of the island. This was it. It is also worth mentioning that we were supposed to be writing descriptive pieces, hence the heavy use of adjectival phrases. It stops abruptly because it’s unfinished. I think it was going to end with her suicide. What a cheerful piece. ]*

“Why am I here?” she murmured to herself, the wind snatching at her words and scattering them to the stone-grey sea. She wondered at the philosophy of her question and smiled a small, humourless smile. As she shifted her feet slightly, loose, dry soil crumbled away from the imposing cliff. The angular rock jutted out to sea, its sharp surface occasionally softened by clinging moss that added a pale, sickly yellow tinge to the dirty grey.

The woman turned sharply from the sea; salty tears cascading down her pallid skin and mingling with the briny air. The wind tugged at her hair, twisting it around her face. She made no sound as she stood staring with unseeing eyes towards the barren island, whilst the rushing waves and screaming gulls encircled her in a veil of noise.

She wanted to scream too.

To release the burning poison in her heart before it began to taint her.

She ran, her legs tearing against thorny skeletons of dead thistles and scraping against the acid barbs of stinging nettles. She wanted to get away, but always the mocking call of the sea was in her ears, drawing her back, recalling her memory. She stumbled across the pock-marked land, blinded by her consuming pain, overcome by her confusion. She slipped, falling on the spiny grass, and lay still. She remained motionless for a long time.

She opened her eyes and saw she had fallen by the crumbling ruins of wartime fortifications. The echo of war, the pain of the past, drew the black clouds closer over her mind.

“No!” She hissed fiercely as she felt the tendrils wrapping around her mind, blazing with agonising clarity. The tickling, consuming, spiders of the brain, that provoked and scratched at her mind.

Then she remembered; she remembered her solace; she remembered her release.

Study: Gullibilty

*[ Written in a similar depressing vein as the above. Only a teenager could come up with this stuff. Basically about the damaging effects of lies etc. etc.]*

Your hardened heart speaks soft to me,
My soul accepts the lie;
Yet from within I tear myself,
And in this way, I die.

Study: Lyrical Iliad

*[Some light relief at last! When I thought it would be fun to put the Iliad into lyrics. It’s a bit rubbish- but I find it amusing to see how inventively I managed to twist words around to fit the rhyme scheme. ]*

Once there was a rosy dawn
That ever sought the night.
She followed on his heels until
She fled from morning light.

One day, like this, Apollo’s sun
Was midway through the sky.
The gods were set about the feast
To sup with spirits high.

A ball, like this, of blazing gold,
Fell from the wraith-like hand,
By the spite of Eris made
To tear apart the land.

From her lips was torn a scream,
“For the prettiest one of all!”
None could bear to be a judge,
So for Paris they did call.

One goddess, the wife of Zeus,
Was Hera, proud to stand,
And bribe the witless Paris with,
Success in Eastern lands.

The next to come was tall and wise,
Her blade not bent to pity.
By her name she was Athene,
She pledged her own city.

The final one to take the stand,
The last to want the toy,
Saw through Paris as he was,
A vain and weak young boy.

Study: Megan the Jersey Cow.

*[ I have included this to finish up my early poetic efforts. This is technically a song about a cow called Megan and her journey through life. If you ask nicely, I’ll sing it to you. ]*

Megan, the Jersey Cow,
She wanders around in the field somehow.
Now she’s a Hamburger.

Study: Swim

*[ I wrote this poem when thinking about what it would be like to live the life of Jane Eyre. Don’t ask me why I thought the copper/ tin line was a good idea. What a strange value system I have. ]*

I threw myself in
At the deep end,
Just to see
If I could swim.

I fell to the
Darkness within,
Hating or
Fearing him

That would save me.
Deep, green dim,
I sank to the bottom
With him, alone in

Myself. I could not
Win, no words
As precious as
Copper or Tin.

I felt so thin,
My happiness
Within so slim,
The silent din

Of self-reproach.
Where was my sin
That life should
Pin such pain on
So simple an act

As to go
For a moments swim.

Study: Brain Spiders

*[ This was written about that horrible feeling of shame and embarrassment. Its unfinished because I got bored with it. ]*

Brain spiders of my soul
Consume my thoughts,
Swallowed whole
Wrapped in sickly
Night, coal-black
Smothering,

Choking for air,
Bound by spiny legs,
Welcome lair of
Crawling Nightmares.
Down, deep buried,
Alive, but still.

Study: Out to Dinner

*[ I wrote this when bored and wanting someone to talk to. I was going to add more, but I like the simplicity of it. ]*

James has just signed in
Again to MSN,
Yet he’s set to Away,
Like Alex is

Out to Dinner.

Study: Lydia’s Rhyme

*[ Lydia wrote me a poem, so I wrote her one back. It’s based on Edgar Allen Poe- and I lead into my two verses by quoting one of his. It comes from “The Raven” ]*

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.”

Then I heard a louder knock, as regular as a ticking clock,
The door burst wide, my fears confirmed, its Lydia Hyde!
Can I borrow a set of tights? Asked the bright and nimble sprite.
“No!” Quoth I, “I’ve none to spare, not even a single pair!”
Deflated and defeated, the bright-eyed girl retreated,
To be tightless evermore!

Feeling like I’d been a grump, or some miser with the hump,
I set out to make it up, no better way than a tea-filled cup!
White with sugar she’ll abide, not without, for Lydia Hyde!
Let’s go watch some late-night telly, there’s more choice than at a delhi,
Repeats galore on channel four- Housewives and Earl,
For Evermore!

*[ Well done for reading this far! I shall now finish by promising that I am getting on with writing my prose piece of fantasy fiction. The plot is almost complete and once that is set down to my satisfaction, there should be a lot of writing afoot. The plot is currently as long as my dissertation, which just goes to show that writing for fun goes much more quickly than writing for work. ]*