The magic sword can't

be pulled free by focusing --


on the mossy stone.

Truces
by Michael R. Burch

Artur took Cabal, his hound,
and Carwennan, his knife,
and his sword forged by Wayland
and Merlyn, his falcon,
and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife,
he strode to the Table Rounde.

“Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad,
and here is Wygar that I wear,
and ready for war,
an oath I foreswore
to fight for all that is righteous and fair
from Wales to the towers of Gilead!”

But none could be found to contest him,
for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth,
so he hastened back home, for to rest him,
till his wife bade him, “Thatch up the roof!”

We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur’s hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, possibly the son of Wayland Smith. Legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, armor, sword, Excalibur, spear, Lancelot, wife, domestic chores, war, peace, homework

It Is Not the Sword!
by Michael R. Burch

This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur’s fame (and hyperbole) grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants.

“It is not the sword,
but the man,”
said Merlyn.
But the people demanded a sign—
the sword of Macsen Wledig,
Caladbolg, the “lightning-shard.”

“It is not the sword,
but the words men follow.”
Still, he set it in the stone
—Caladvwlch, the sword of kings—
and many a man did strive, and swore,
and many a man did moan.

But none could budge it from the stone.

“It is not the sword
or the strength,”
said Merlyn,
“that makes a man a king,
but the truth and the conviction
that ring in his iron word.”

“It is NOT the sword!”
cried Merlyn,
crowd-jostled, marveling
as Arthur drew forth Caliburn
with never a gasp,
with never a word,

and so became their king.

Published by Songs of Innocence, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Romantics Quarterly and Celtic Twilight. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, stone, sword, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, England

On the day he died
King Arthur ordered his knights
told them to prepare to fight
and maybe even die;
He was brave
and so was Mordred
who put a sword through his father,
the once and future tyrant.

At Camlann, the day was hot,
yet so cold; the air was misty
and the sea boiled;
The trees tilted away
looking scared and ashamed;
The prophets were quiet,
tight lipped, they sat up high,
chain-smoking on the peace pipe.

Mordred's head was pins-and-needles.
He clawed at his sword in stress,
looking at the opposite camp.
He thought of his mother at Avalon,
wondering if she'll bury him there
or his father. What will he do upon
arriving with heavy steps
on the fields of Camlann? He feels lost.

King Arthur was brandishing Excalibur,
lost in thoughts of murderous
sons and treacherous friends
and cheating wives.
He was reminiscing of his sister
and the ***** secret that lay,
all his shame, out in the open.
“'Tis long overdue.” He pondered.

Then came the hour, the minute,
the second; On the plains of Camlann
an ordinary soldier
saw the heavens through the clouds,
while the great knights were busy
with bloodbath and sacrifice.
He screamed with joy and terror
as the swords clashed with each other.

In the midst of the bloodthirsty,
confused horde was Mordred,
a ****** smile on his face
and his ragged blade
tore a gaping hole
in his father's abdomen.
As soon as he hit the floor,
Lancelot came from beyond.

He was too late; his king dead,
his queen devastated, banished;
she fled unwilling, but obediently.
There was only one thing left
to do; Lancelot knew well.
So King Arthur met his end at Camlann
and died with his son, Mordred.

That was the day their lives ended;
The lake Avalon took them in
and swallowed their bodies whole;
Lancelot watched the fire burn away.
Nimue, at the bottom of the lake,
broke the sword in half and wailed.
The world got quiet and moved on,
carrying the weight of forever lost
Camelot.

He's the only one
who pulled out the sword and could
cleave her heart of stone.

So here I go
At the hill of Camlann
My Death will arrive soon
I can't talk nor walk.
Due to severe wounds I've got
So i asked Bedevier
To bring this sword
Back to the real owner
To take my immortality
And tell Merlin to bring me
To the garden Avalon.

Sword of Ishmael, robed in Assyria's mantle,
Consecrated of God, Prince of princes,
A Destroyer: the executioner of judgements.
A thorn driven deep into the heart of Jerusalem,
Tempting violent men, who pride in their strength,
as Excalibur and the Gordian Knot challenged
Arthur and Alexander.

Your mouth fumbles
When you call me baby
The word is foreign.
You are afraid.
A mouse caught in the gaze of a snake.
Will it slice your tongue if you say it too hard?
Or too soft?

It rolls up your throat
Pushes past your teeth with great strength
Awkward and sounding slightly out of breath
You mumble it between "hey' and "how are you"
Squished and small
Like it doesn't deserve recognition or even its own space.

You've wrapped it in fear
Hoping that if you say it nicely
Maybe somehow it will be less like a missile
Maybe this time it won't hurt.

It is exotic to that mouth of yours.
A rare commodity,
A precious rock we have to excavate
Our own romantic version of the sword in the stone