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Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Pellinore’s Fancy
by Michael R. Burch

King Pellinore was famous for hunting the Questing Beast, a rather odd, fantastical creature. Does its name suggest that the beast was dreamed up, or invented for the purpose of questing after it? Perhaps Pellinore simply didn’t want to stay home and needed a good (if farfetched) excuse to furnish his wife . . .

What do you do when your wife is a nag
and has sworn you to hunt neither fish, fowl, nor stag?
When the land is at peace, but at home you have none,
Is that, perchance, when ... the Questing Beasts run?

Keywords/Tags: King Pellinore, questing beast, hunt, Arthurian, legend, myth, wife, nag
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch

Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:

Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels’ tales.

They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.

They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.

Published by Celtic Twilight, Celtic Lifestyles, Boston Poetry and Auldwicce. Few legends have inspired more poetry than those of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These legends have their roots in a far older Celtic mythology than many realize. Here the names are ancient and compelling. Arthur becomes Artur or Artos, “the bear.” Bedivere becomes Bedwyr. Lancelot is Llenlleawc, Llwch Lleminiawg or Lluch Llauynnauc. Merlin is Myrddin. And there is an curious intermingling of Welsh and Irish names within these legends, indicating that some tales (and the names of the heroes and villains) were in all probability “borrowed” by one Celtic tribe from another. For instance, in the Welsh poem “Pa gur,” the Welsh Manawydan son of Llyr is clearly equivalent to the Irish Mannanan mac Lir. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, wild hunt, Halloween, Artur, Bedwyr, Valerin, Valynt, Gawain, Owain, Devon, Wales
Growly Wolfus Mar 2020
I plant the last cross in the frosted ground
of winter marching through the leaves of fall.
The last of my coterie I hadst found
I buried, each covered with a singed pall.
Now in the world of cold, I lie in snow,
mourning the loss of everything I was.
Insanity exuding from my woe
and dreadful curses spouting from my jaws.
Thou art a monster corrupting the world
and spreading dreadful lies of the deeds done.
But soon, behold, the truth to be unfurled!
The news spreadest thee from thy serpent's tongue.
I choosest to complete my final hunt
and punish thee for such a great affront.

Thou hearken not to the grave steps upon the earth now beating.
Dost thou not see, contemptuous fiend, the eyes of death upon thee?
Thou takest from the living world the reason for my being.
And by thy hand, destroy my land, stealest everything from me.
Growly Wolfus Mar 2020
Another night smotherest sun and day.
We playest cards for fun by candlelight.
Henceforth shalt it remain to be this way,
to never be plagued by another's plight.
I goest by the moon and stars for sport,
a hunt in wood during the darkest hour.
My greatest loyal friend protects my court,
my love sleeps soundly in the safest tower.
When I returnest on steed whence I came,
I see the smoke and rush back to my home.
My castle is consumed by growing flame;
my love hangs limply from the reddened stone.
My friend, no more, thou gaze upon it all
as the spark of fire and my dukedom's fall.

Thou dolt!  Buffoon!  Barbaric fool!  Thou hast betrayed my trust.
I stagger through the sundered stone in rooms where we'd imbibe
and cry upon the sullied ground 'midst things that hadst combust.
Enraged, I screamest in my home surrounded by thy lies.
A twist on Shakespearean sonnets with a rhyming storyline and some different cadence.  There's more to come!
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3745500/the-hunt-part-two/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3745505/the-hunt-part-three/
Delia Grace Jan 2020
It is me
that is destined to
be spilled across
the muddy ground.
It can be
no one else’s pelt
that warms your foyer.

Did you hunt me yourself?
Or did you find me
as I left myself
take me in
and dub me your ****?
Tell yourself it counts,
an accidental shot.

Stretch your toes
on my back
as you sip your morning coffee.
Beat me in the garden
in the spring air.
Choke on the filth
I’ve collected.
12/15/19
Mark Toney Dec 2019
genealogy
family tree treasure hunt—
come to your census
12/9/2019 - Poetry form: Senryu - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Max Neumann Nov 2019
we're from the
south

we're coming for
you

we're giving you
the wrong address in order to hunt
you

don't you worry about it
don't you feel intimidated it's
fine being inferior
don't ya think bro?
Today is a good day.
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