Category: Fighter Poems

This fighter poem was a favorite to write!  The fighter is is a bard, a distinguished poet, and shares my own appreciation of Middle English.  Because I hoped to write in Middle English, I chose to write a Chaucerian Roundel, a special rondel form used in the fourteenth century (my own persona’s period), primarily by Chaucer.

This roundel contains thirteen lines, with a rhyme scheme ABB abAB abbABB.  The first two lines are repeated, as a refrain, at the end of the second stanza — and the first three lines are repeated, as a refrain, at the end of the third.

The challenge of writing in Middle English was as expected, but the real challenge was re-writing the poem, again, in modern English, maintaining the rhyming pattern and the meaning, as well.

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Baron Secca of Kent
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVII

(Chaucerian Roundel)

Heere biginnen the Barones Tale
Ona squier swo breeght so lusty also
To sonne slawe ant hertes breste echon.

Of worthy knight then striken yvele
Maidens crid ant fel as al was ydo
So heere goon the Barones Tale
Ona squier swo breeght so lusty also.

Ywis fro werreour brout acts of vileynye
Brout soregh and murne and mones also
Fro this faire quen ant hir leudis and mo
Ant so heere endes the barones tale
Ona squier swo breeght so lusty also
To sonne slawe ant hertes breste echon.

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And here begins, in rhyme, the Baron’s Plight
A squire so vigorous and fair in face
Too swiftly slain, thus causing hearts to break.

First struck down, rudely, by one noble knight
The maidens cried and fell, without disgrace
Continue now, this Baron’s Tale of Plight
Of squire pleasant, still, and fair in face.

As certain as defeat from villain’s fight
Were moans and sorrow from all in that place
From queen and victors’ ladies, doleful face
And so an end, in rhyme, to Baron’s Plight
A squire so bright and pleasant, fair in face
Too swiftly slain, thus causing hearts to break.

– Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

 

The rime royal, also known as the Chaucerian stanza, was a popular Renaissance poetry form in England and France, and remained quite popular with Scottish poets.  The stanza is 7 iambic pentameter lines, with the rhyming pattern ababbcc.  It is rarely seen as a single stanza poem, but often used as a narrative stanza for storytelling.

Sir Ilia is an 11th century Rus bodyguard.  His Lady bears 3 orthodox crosses in her arms, which gave me the idea that Sir Ilia might be Christian, as well.  While searching for persona information, which may or may not offer inspiration for my poem, I came across many stories about the brothers, Boris and Gleb, the first two saints canonized in Kievan Rus.  They were sons of Vladimir the Great, who ruled from 980-1015.  Both were murdered during the internecine wars of 1015-1019, and canonized by the Orthodox Church, in Rus, in 1071.

During an assassination attempt, Boris was stabbed and left for dead.  As his body was being transported to Kiev in a sack, he was discovered to be still breathing.  With several sure thrusts, Varangian swords quickly put him out of his misery.  As Gleb knelt, praying beside the body of his brother, he was assassinated by his own cook, with a knife from his own table.

Sir Ilia’s fight for the Crown of Caid pitted him against two Varangians, who were soundly defeated.  His first defeat was by the hand of a brother knight and fellow cook, Sir Jamal Damien Marcus.  The opponent who ultimately ended Sir Ilia’s quest was the man who would be Prince of Caid, Sir Mansur.

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Sir Ilia Aleksandrovich
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVII

(rime royal)

While wagons labored under weight of sky
And travelers blistered aside tourney field
This knight, unshaken by his foes nearby
Stood tall and ready, armed with sword and shield.
By setting sun, our future king revealed.
His Lady Dragon watching, rapt in wait
Sent prayers that intercessors guard his fate.

First, one of equal size would stand his way
But soon he fell to Ilia’s quicker blows
Shortly, one Varangian Guard would pay
A debt of life for Boris’s repose
And Peacock add felled Rabbit to her woes.
This knight, still standing under sluggish swords
Held on to hope that he would reap rewards.

But, Golden Eagle traded blow for blow
Until one cook was fallen in the end
The striking Eagle conquered prey below
And brother knight now made a foe of friend.
A prayer too late that Saint Gleb may forfend.
Still, not the last for this master Rus knight
He stood, again, armed ready for the fight.

A second Guardsman took his final strike
Another debt for Princes-saints was paid
And once the Black Bull forfeited his life
He lost with it the wager he had laid.
By setting sun, the end of game was played.
Well practiced blows fell swift through thinning air.
And He, who would be Prince, would lay him there.

– Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse.  If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

The rime royal, also known as the Chaucerian stanza, was a popular Renaissance poetry form in England and France, and remained quite popular with Scottish poets.  The stanza is 7 iambic pentameter lines, with the rhyming pattern ababbcc.  It is rarely seen as a single stanza poem, but often used as a narrative stanza for storytelling.

I chose to write this, not only as a poem of praise for Sir Mons, but as a recollection of the day he honored Caid with his most honorable skill and demeanor.

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Sir Mons von Goarshausen
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVI

(rime royal)

As morning sun relieved the cold of night
And fading embers died into the day
Her sleeping soldiers wakened for the fight
That would determine who would lead our way
And be the muse of every minstrel’s lay.
One eager knight, aspiring, of the Rhine
Foot sure against the siren Lorelei.

First, chivalry would be this fighter’s call
His honor bound to see his lady’s needs
While others worked to turn back earthen pall
And free the stinging armies lying beneath
Then herald would call battle to proceed.
Now eager knight with lady at his side
Approached the field for victory he vied.

With towering confidence he took the field
And bested cat and wyvern with sure blows
Until not less than three would make him yield
And lay him fallen on that tourney field
To fill the waiting tomb that lay below.
This tale is one of honor for Caid;
For him that day who lauded Her, god spede.

– Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse.  If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

It had to be an Italian Sonnet, “little song”, for this Italian fighter!  The first sonnets were written by 13th century Italian poets and this one was modeled after those in the style of Francesco Petrarch.  What a fun poetry form!

The sonnets were 14 lines of iambic pentameter; specifically, the first part, an octave, with the rhyming pattern abbaabba, “setting the scene” of the poem.  Second then, a sestet, with the rhyming pattern cdecde, which offers the conclusion to the situation described in the octave.

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Lord Niccolo d’Angelo
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVI

(Petrarchan Sonnet)

As a sol invictus, on the field he strode
And brought all eyes, this day, to one so bold
Without concern to what the stars foretold
This Florence Sun rose up to meet his foe.
The field, now dark from flight of hooded crow
On two who lingered long in battle’s hold
Last kiss, then, from this glowing florin gold
Yet argent axe would give the final blow.

If confidence, alone, could victory bring
And beauty to the eye, a battle won
All glory, then, to Niccolo this day.
But, first to fight would, once again, be king
And rule, with Winged Bear, over His son
Who, on this day of memory, came to play.

– THL Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . a 14^th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse.  If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

I wasn’t sure whether or not Sir Ragnar has a Viking persona, but it was a great excuse to try another Norse poem!  I’m not sure what it is, exactly, that attracts me to this form; perhaps it is because these poems must be performed in order to appreciate the effect of the alliteration.  These poems are perfect to memorize and share around the fire!

 

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Sir Ragnar of Sandcastle

fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XLV

(alliterative verse)

Spear-trees stood // set and strong
as friend and foe // fringed tourney field.
Desert dwellers // adorned hill and dale
while sky-beast waited // wanting battle-waste.

Castle-knight called // by kingdom-cry
for first fight // on fire-field.
Braving burn // and Mongol-brave
Ragnar rose // to reduce rampant beast.
No yearnings met //  for young yale yet.

Fire-face watched // as warrior-steed
lessened the strength // of scorpion’s sting.
But, in a blink // this brave knight brought
his fettered foe // to eagle’s feast.
Now, brother-knight // would name the beast.

Death-defiers // dazed by dragon-eye
yet boasting brave // with blistered burn.
Sand-dweller stands // his fortress strong
and lash returned // from Lady-love.
Beaten-knight stands // and bests the beast.

But, for Thaleia // three lashes more
and boar stands alone // beneath boasting beast,
Desert-dwellers // declined the throne
carry their comrade // to castle-keep.

— THL Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse.  If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

I was honored to be assigned Kolfinna as my fighter.  I served as a Lady of Her Court during both reigns, and became a fierce friend — so easily.  Before my poem was completed, I learned it was to be her last fighter poem.  I was so not worthy!  She would laugh at that idea, I know, so I let my pen tell the story of her last fight.  What I lack in skill, I hope to make up with a sincere heart –a heart that shares the same dream as hers had — a place for Kolfinna to remain, forever.

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Duchess Kolfinna kottr

fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S., XLIV

(alliterative verse)

First-fire fared, and filled morning sky
Men and Maiden, in madder-light
Sharpened spears, and steadied swords
Determined to deny death-choosers this day.

Shield-Maiden stood, as Saxi’s stone
Warrior-ready, until last weapon would fall
Bryan Gard Yale, began the battle-dance
He would finish on Freyja’s Field.

Under Odin’s orb, in ocean-amber
Shimmering sky-ceiling, of golden shields
Sister-Warrior stood, Sigrid-Mother her strength
And Thorin fell, in this tomb of trees
Meeting horse and hart at Odin’s hall.

Then knight and knight-brother, notable peers
Valets to the Valkyrie, both victors in turn
Bested by both, the brave battler fell
Cherished Duchess, now chosen champion
Of Valhalla’s Vanguard.

Sky-fire fell, in the Field of Folk.
And orange ambers await Odin’s call.

— THL Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse.  If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

 

This very strong fighter needed a strong poem to commemorate his very strong presence at Crown.  Thanks to my good friend, Mistress Caitlin, I learned about the alliterative verse — a favorite of hers and, now, of mine!

 

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THL Mikhail of the Kuma
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XLIII

(alliterative verse)

Man-mountain came, Mikhail of the Kuma
Of Thor-thunder born, thirsting to reign
On these fertile fields, ever forging beyond
Rome’s wanton ways, which now lay waste.

Thor’s Mjolnir-now-man, Mikhail of the Kuma
Judger of giants, five joined their fate
Where power of pike, pelt them same
To lie where last, in lethal pose.

Eilidh, Oak-maiden, attended her idled knight
And blood of bull, becalmed the Countess Bard.
Three, then, threat-less, as thwarted lord
Faced his final, fateful blow.
For cat and kit, Vicountess’ aim curtailed
As fire flit, but failed; then five
When William fell, to Warrior-bear.

But eye of eagle, eager hunter
Keen and quick, quail for none
Stood watch and waited, weakening never.
Spanish son and spice trader
Now, Death-Defier, dealt the blow.

And, last, who learned his lessons well
Beloved Boar-King, bade him go
Home to hall, where Hammer-god lay.
Senestre stood tall, the last stand was his
With no clap or clack, no clash from iron fist.
Bested by boar, Bear-Warrior falls
As ancient oak, and silence echoes across the field.

 — THL Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse.  If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, put out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

A poem for a poet!  I admit that I was paralyzed with fear, for the longest time, before I could even begin this one.  I asked Duke Dietrich for any impressions he was left with at the end of the day and his response was typical of so many of his own poems: he fights for the love and honor of his lady and for no other reason.

Looking, then, to Germanic styles in general, and compositions by minnesingers, specifically, I selected to write a Wechsel (alternating) song, wherein two lovers speak in alternating verses.  Rhyming couplets were commonly used in this form.

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Herzog Dietrich von Vogelsang
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XLII

(wechsel)

The day was new!  Yet, most familiar was that field
As were the blows old foes returned upon my shield.
With each of these I answered, thus did I impart
I fight with Lady’s Love and Favor in my heart.

So many times I’ve waited here with heart in hand
And watched this valiant knight against his foeman stand.
I’ve come to feel his blows and sing his cries aloud;
Yet, I find comfort, then, in his admiring crowd.

Neither lightning strikes nor horns of sable bull
Could wound or wane the ardent fervor of my will.
Yet, thrice, the sloth was there with sure and swifter blows
Delivering my Lady’s Love to my repose.

So still!  My knight now lies recumbent at my feet
For on this tourney field, he suffered a defeat.
But, with his final dance, his victory was dealt
And all that saw him fall, shared in the joy I felt.

I may fall one thousand times upon this field
Yet, only for my Lady’s Favor I will yield;
And for my Lady’s Love I will, with joy, replay
Another battle fought on, yet, a better day!

— THL Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse.  If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.