Becoming Beathog

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.