"arthurian" poems
The Kiss of Ceridwen
by Michael R. Burch
The kiss of Ceridwen
I have felt upon my brow,
and the past and the future
have appeared, an eerie vapor,
mingling with the here and now.
And Morrigan, the Raven,
the messenger, has come,
to tell me that the gods, unsung,
will not last long
when the druids’ harps grow dumb.
Originally published by Songs of Innocence
Keywords/Tags: Ceridwen, white, witch, enchantress, sorceress, crone, cauldron, awen, throne, Morfran, power, Wales, Welsh, Druids, Banshee, Picts, Scots, Scottish, fairies, glade, raven, gull, King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 1:17 AM UTC
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
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
Running rings around thirteen hours of opera
I sit spell-bound absorbing the angry music
Suppressing an urge to re-conquer Poland
Music a direct expression of world’s essence
**** passion means Israel is Wagner-free
Tristan and Isolde unplayed before Ludwig
Love and death and passion for Mathlde
Eros and Thanathos that predate Freud
Arthurian love story interrupted by Minna
Overwhelming influence frustrates his peers
Worried that his brilliance is simply anger
That guarantees you feel undead tonight.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
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
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC
Midsummer-Eve: the Flight of the Faeries
by Michael R. Burch
What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term “banshee”) and, eventually, to the druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgause and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts.
In the ruins
of the dreams
and the schemes
of men;
when the moon
begets the tide
and the wide
sea sighs;
when a star
appears in heaven
and the raven
cries;
we will dance
and we will revel
in the devil’s
fen . . .
if nevermore again.
Keywords/Tags: Druids, Banshee, Picts, Scots, Scottish, fairies, glade, raven, gull, King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 10:09 PM UTC
The red run the rocks in the highlands
rare as diamonds the white
the ancients fumed, a harbinger of doom
Arthurian legends, more bright
The White Stag nver' be caught
running the forests all day and all night
wonder be seen, the emblem of queens
ta a beautiful meaningful, sight
Legends and myths, they abound
tales of proportions large and not slight
touched by the scene, the wonder it means
a portent that things, be alright
Scots Gaelic:
An ruith ruadh na creagan anns a 'Ghàidhealtachd
tearc mar diamaint an geal
bha na seann daoine a 'smuaineachadh, a' toirt ionnsaigh orra
Uirsgeulan Artair, nas soilleir
The White Stag nver 'air a ghlacadh
ruith nan coilltean fad an latha agus fad na h-oidhche
iongnadh ri fhaicinn, suaicheantas nam banrighrean
tha sealladh brìghmhor brìghmhor
Sgeulachdan is uirsgeulan, tha iad gu leòr
sgeulachdan mu chuibhreannan mòra agus chan eil mòran
air a chuairteachadh leis an t-sealladh, an iongnadh a tha e a 'ciallachadh
portent a tha sin, bi gu ceart
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
Merlyn, on His Birth
by Michael R. Burch
I was born in Gwynedd,
or not born, as men may claim,
and the Zephyr of Caer Myrrdin
gave me my name.
My father was Madog Morfeyn
but our eyes were never the same,
nor our skin, nor our hair;
for his were dark, dark
—as our people’s are—
and mine were fairer than fair.
The night of my birth, the Zephyr
carved of white stone a rune;
and the ringed stars of Ursa Major
outshone the cool pale moon;
and my grandfather, Morydd, the seer
saw wheeling, a-gyre in the sky,
a falcon with terrible yellow-gold eyes
when falcons never fly.
Legend has it that Zephyr was an ancestor of Merlin. In this poem, I suggest that Merlin may have been an albino, which might have led to seemingly outlandish claims that he had no father, due to radical physical differences between father and son. This would have also added to his appearance as a mystical figure. The reference to Ursa Major, the bear, ties the birth of Merlin to the future birth of Arthur, whose Welsh name (“Artos” or “Artur”) means “bear.” Morydd is a another possible ancestor of Merlin’s.
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 5:04 AM UTC
Small Tales
by Michael R. Burch
When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr
were but scrawny lads
they had many a ***** adventure
in the still glades
of Gwynedd.
When the sun beat down like an oven
upon the kiln-hot hills
and the scorched shores of Carmarthen,
they went searching
and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr.
They fought a day and a night
with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten),
rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer
and told quite a talltale or two,
"till thems wasn’t so shore which’un’s tails wus true."
And these have been passed down to me, and to you.
According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector’s court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere) might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or “lost” homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. (“Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too!”) Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as “small tales,” little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend much of their free time drinking and puking! Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, boy, boyhood, ***** drinking, beer, ale, tall tales, Wales
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 12:50 AM UTC
At Tintagel
by Michael R. Burch
That night,
at Tintagel,
there was darkness such as man had never seen . . .
darkness and treachery,
and the unholy thundering of the sea . . .
In his arms,
who is to say how much she knew?
And if he whispered her name . . .
“Ygraine”
could she tell above the howling wind and rain?
Could she tell, or did she care,
by the length of his hair
or the heat of his flesh, . . .
that her faceless companion
was Uther, the dragon,
and Gorlois lay dead?
Published by Songs of Innocence, Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times. The legend of what happened on a stormy night at Tintagel is endlessly intriguing. Supposedly, Merlin transformed Uther Pendragon to look like Gorlois so that he could sleep with Ygraine, the lovely wife of the unlucky duke. While Uther was enjoying Ygraine’s ********** Gorlois was off getting himself killed. The question is: did Igraine suspect that her lover was not her husband? Regardless, Arthur was the child conceived out of this supernatural (?) encounter. Keywords/Tags: Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, Tintagel, Uther, dragon, Pendragon, Ygraine, Igraine, Gorlois, duke, identity, switch, transformation
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:10 AM UTC
The Pictish Faeries
by Michael R. Burch
Smaller and darker
than their closest kin,
the faeries learned only too well
never to dwell
close to the villages of larger men.
Only to dance in the starlight
when the moon was full
and men were afraid.
Only to worship in the farthest glade,
ever heeding the raven and the gull.
The invincible Roman legions were never able to subdue the Scottish Picts, and eventually built Hadrian’s Wall to protect themselves! Did the Picts give rise to our myths of fairies, elves and leprechauns? Keywords/Tags: Picts, Scots, Scottish, fairies, glade, raven, gull, King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Saxon
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 9:59 PM UTC
Morgause’s Song
by Michael R. Burch
Before he was my brother,
he was my lover,
though certainly not the best.
I found no joy
in that addled boy,
nor he at my breast.
Why him? Why him?
The years grow dim.
Now it’s harder and harder to say ...
Perhaps girls and boys
are the god’s toys
when the skies are gray.
Published by Celtic Twilight
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 9:13 PM UTC
Uther’s Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch
When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.
“Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age.”
All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.
“Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.”
Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.
“Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done.”
Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.
“Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.
And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be.”
So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 7:31 PM UTC
the colossi of oblivion
roam interplanetary barrens--
wearing ashen garlands
that drip flame.
watching the flames float away, eaten by
the concept less crush of what ceases no end.
hopelessly lost to the relative,
their consciousness continually
expanding...in meditative blasts.
(shedding cherry blossoms, & babbling brooks)
Arthurian swords pulled out of
the stones of more advanced minds--
blindfolded initiations that wield
event horizons.
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 1:21 PM UTC
Merlyn’s First Prophecy
by Michael R. Burch
Vortigern commanded a tower to be built upon Snowden,
but the earth would churn and within an hour its walls would cave in.
Then his druid said only the virginal blood of a fatherless son,
recently shed, would ever hold the foundation.
“There is, in Caer Myrrdin, a faery lad, a son with no father;
his name is Merlyn, and with his blood you would have your tower.”
So Vortigern had them bring the boy, the child of the demon,
and, taciturn and without joy, looked out over Snowden.
“To **** a child brings little praise, but many tears.”
Then the mountain slopes rang with the brays of Merlyn’s jeers.
“Pure poppycock! You fumble and bumble and heed a fool.
At the base of the rock the foundations crumble into a pool!”
When they drained the pool, two dragons arose, one white and one red,
and since the old druid was blowing his nose, young Merlyn said:
“Vortigern is the white, Ambrosius the red; now, watch, indeed.”
Then the former died as the latter fed and Vortigern peed.
Originally published by Celtic Twilight
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, Ambrosius, Vortigern, dragons
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 5:13 AM UTC
you came back like magic
the salt spray hitting Lucy’s face
from the frame on her bedroom wall
you stepped out of a memory and nothing had changed
your voice still honey sweet to me
your smile still sonnets and songs
thinking of you makes me feel the City in my veins again
rushing and crashing and bustling
my laugh rising above it all
you came back like magic
hiding dragons in your pockets
whispering arthurian myths in my ears as I fall asleep
finding me through the ages that separate us
even though they never passed
you are still family enough (to me)
to brush my hair out at the end of the day
once i’ve put the world away and taken off my armor
hidden melodies spill from my lips when you’re there
drawn like poison from a wound
like honey from a comb
songs i never think to sing around anyone else
singing while i wait for you
part of me still sitting in the park
where i waited once before
once, it was love
(it will always be love)
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:36 AM UTC
Uther’s Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch
When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.
“Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age.”
All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.
“Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.”
Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.
“Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done.”
Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.
“Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.
And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be.”
So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, Uther Pendragon
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 5:18 AM UTC
the inherent harmony of the Arthurian phrase,
always charmed me, and by it, herein employed,
to wrestle/rassle it to the ground, like two preteen boys,
in a do or die, which prohibits ****** harm but releases
the testosterone that helps them moves them to the next,
Once and Future
stage, more a platform, to leg up further, to the next step,
that will be the once and future reforming, for are we not
always wrestling with our Once, this imprecise but prescient
point when we have arrived, knowing intuitively, it is not
a terminus, but just another way station to I-do not-know,
but knowing with genetic certainty that
when you get there,
that you have reached and met the requirements of what it means
to be, to exist as, to be so noted on the continuum of a
Once and Future
existence.
Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 4:57 PM UTC
A boring young fella called Arthur,
Married an exciteable girl called Martha
They were together a short while
Until she saw the smile
Of an interesting lad, goodbye Arthur.
Tom Higgins 25/05/2014
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
I glimpsed the Grail
Removed her mail:
And there beheld an epic tale:
Chivalric odes
With knightly codes
And brave Arthurian episodes . . .
Revealing there
Her essence bare
I touched on divers themes most fair.
The gauntlet flung,
My canto sung,
I read her poem—with my tongue.
My lady-squire
Upon her sire
Now reaped her harvest of desire.
My milk-white steed
Traversed her mead
And she dismounted, free indeed.
Fresh love consumed,
Our quest resumed;
Ideals of chivalry entombed.
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
She squints, her eyes open
She musters the strength
She crawls to the kitchen
But not the full length
In minutes she’s dancing
So fluid, so free
And she’s such a comfort
And so dear to me
She’s the life of the party
Ask anyone here.
They’ve lined up tequila
And whiskey and beer.
Thankful but unfazed
By what they’ve been pourin’ her
As she’s warmly approaching
The chick in the corner
And she saves souls for real
Not like those ****** preachers
And she’s one who can teach
All the doctors and teachers
They hang on her words
And are better for knowing
This spark of existence
This cup overflowing
And I stand in wonder
At all she has touched
All she has given
She’ll say it’s not much
But waves propagate
With her as their source
She speaks, and the cosmos
Is changing its course
Some days she’s saddened
By her empathic knowing
Some days are like years;
Some fly and need slowing.
This past year’s been cutting
The claws of it rip
But she opens her eyes wide
Embracing the trip
And she senses things easily
Intuition - hot
She knows who she is
And she knows who she’s not
And her honor is worthy
Of Arthurian Lore
Her oaths aren’t made lightly
She’s is steadfast and sure
She’s seared into his folds
As his synapses tire
And he needs to subdue
And he’s dousing that fire
But she’s stuck in his head
Like a hook in a fish
And affecting his thoughts
And becoming his wish
He wouldn’t dare dream
Of breaking connection
With someone so dear;
So with each correction,
He’s learning to dance
The dance she intends
To never destroy
This deep bond as friends
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 1:38 PM UTC
While you are asleep upstairs my little loves and the big one too,
should I watch Thomas, Jane Austen or Arthurian witches?
Chased by unconscious thoughts, the screen beckons to expel the blue.
While you are asleep upstairs my little loves and the big one too,
Netflix proposes in the stillness of the night and I miss you,
bubblewrapped under my ribs I hold our evening's joys and riches
while you are asleep upstairs, my little loves and the big one too,
should I watch Thomas, Jane Austen or Arthurian witches?
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 6:31 AM UTC