When I was, say, 12 and 13, I was good at poetry. Insanely good. SO GOOD. No, you don't understand. Like, so good, that now when I read it I'm actually really impressed. I don't know what happened. But… needless to say, I have completely lost my touch. I guess my muse got disgusted with me and left. Darn it all. But here's a thingy that I wrote about an awesome dream that I had. (Okay, it just occurred to me that I have had two dreams with dragons in them – one like the sun, and one like the moon. Whoa, man. May have to write on them later.) The meter and style was probably based on Beowulf (Seamus Heaney's translation). I love that old thing, I really do.
a vast circle of grass expectantly watching
quelled, quiet, ordinary, waiting on wonder
patient, tame, simple, able to wait for ages
The prayer of the silent place's heart
unexpectedly granted.
Dragon. Wide-winged flamecaller, hanging huge
above the blinded plain, blazing with light
Sun's glory streaming between every scale
White rays blasting the unaccustomed land
Pounding firesong dazzling earth-dwellers,
who cower before the daunting beams.
Suspended glorious mediator of earth
and sky, the serpent, solemn and strong,
angelic messenger – who knows of which master? –
opens shining jaws and speaks,
Loud words spoken in an ancient tongue of angels,
roaring a language no son of man now knows,
prophesying, warning, white-scaled face stern
and proud, not knowing human feeling.
Then sudden as it came
The wyrm, full to brimful
With light unearthly
Vanished traceless from sight and from sound
Gone. Left as fast as had come, and
none on earth the wiser for the
winged serpent's arcane foretelling.
The blue sky calm as if never a frame
of luminous dragon had troubled its tent
all is as ordinary as the grass and
the plain – wish granted – for the moment –
familiar again.
So yeah, it's not totally spectacular, but I like it.
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