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Enedentian Epic: Canto V

The shafts of silver starry light
like lucent blades of silver bright
by smiths were fashioned long ago.
The folk of Wondosimodo    
who oft found joy in labour long,        5
had waded forth in solemn song
with naked feet and woven gown.
On each brow was a silver crown.
They held their hair in woven locks
behind their overflowing frocks.        10
Out to the sea of scattered lights
the smiths went on beyond all sight
to fashion from the fiery sea
the stars that shine on mount and tree.

With hammer held by worthy hand        15
approached the humble, priestly band
into the waves of Felabrin
as yet untamed by Camelin.
The glowing embers from afar,
precursors of the myriad stars        20
were shards dispersed by Hilfe's flame.
And though forgotten was its name,
before the kingdom's folds were raised,
Simgeled's vitalizing rays,
the primal fire, the ancient force        25
enkindled change, the first of cause
that moved fate's hand. The primal fire
the angels hearts lit with desire.

Then by the music of the maid
as though his infant cause betrayed        30
the Queen of Moriver let fall
her torch, and scattered round the hall
a multitude of spitting flames
that now the gems of smiths became.
So fashioned they the curious shapes    35
that populate the nighty scapes.
And by the power of Simgeled
are many fates by starlight led.
The silver light of ancient flames
are strange designs with curious names.        40
The ancient beams of starry light
are signs portending bloom and blight.

The language of the burning stars
were read by seers from afar.
A reaching sickle in the sky    45
could be descried from mountain high.
The sickle, read by those of skill
hung over Enedentian hill.
It pointed blade into the east
where earlier fled the slithering beast        50
pursued by throngs of knights and lords
on faithful steeds with gleaming swords.
They marched o'er plain to slay the beast,
and in their haste, they ventured east.
The serpent they pursued in vain:        55
the hosts were never seen again.

Long after many years, the realms
that flourished under kindred helms
into calamity declined:
A cruel fate they were destined        60
to falter in those glorious years
when they outshone their numerous peers.
The people fell to treacherous bands,
that plagued the hills and marred the land.
Deserted then was Hancel's tower:        65
a ghost of Enedentian power.
Yet still there thrived the face of hope
in clustered huts on hilly slope.
The face of hope beyond all thrived
'mongst those who in the valley lived.        70

Yet though all else was in decline
of Hancel's ruin was made a shrine
and deep within the broken caves
amongst the dusty, open graves
the ancient serpent's gaping head        75
still hung upon the place of dread.
The valiant seed of Vindumane,
descendant of the serpent's bane
and victim of rank treachery,
of him there was a memory:        80
a little bush of blood red rose
upon the holy ground arose.
There grew their hope on shrubbery,
of life beyond all misery.

The long declining years were dark,        85
beneath the sky's unholy mark.
Yet whispers of a coming wind
sent shivers through the weary minds
of those oppressed by terror's blight
beneath the shadow of the might        90
of death, that came from hidden lair
in cloaks of evil-laden air.
Great was the fear within the hills
where cold was drear and strong was chill.
They beat their breasts and garments tore        95
and some foresook the eastern shore,
as they espied the blazoned crests
Great flowers issued from the west.

Esteletine, a fairy lord
whose brilliant glistening banner soared        100
above his brow, with keenest eyes
the rocky harbour soon espies
as clear the mists that fog the shore.
To him the whispering winds implore,
and in obedience, sets his boat        105
along the Enedentian coast.
And standing on the rocks he claims
the retreat as the king's domain.
A harbourage is made of caves
that trap the restless pounding waves.        110
And there, was fairy refuge built
beneath the starry sickle's hilt.

Whatever councils seers rede
mean naught to those who only heed
the edicts of the ruling hand.        115
Esteletine of Fairyland
expanded thus the king's domain
as ever eastward led his reign
from rocky shore to grassy field
behind the grey mountaineous shield        120
that shelters land from distant lake,
from which a hundred rivers take
their hidden sources. Running on
they wash the land they flow upon
then to the sea with emptying mouth        125
they end their courses in the south.

On these fair lands the fay laid claim
and there established new domains
commanded by Esteletine
in ways regarded clandestine        130
by those that watched with keen interest
as lords come from the distant west.
The rocks were bored by angry waves
and delved there many thousand caves.
Within those haunts, abode was made        135
the first foundations thus were laid.
Yet even then, the hidden lair
consumed all darkness, ever fair
was field afar from plain to glen
above the caves of Tirilien.        140

The moving hand of fate remianed
hard on the underground domain.
Fair was the subterranean hold;
there vast was keep and clime was cold.
High were the stoney dolven walls        145
that rose within the cavern halls.
And on her western rocky gate
crashed waves with unrelenting hate.
Thus music formed and surged within
the mighty halls, above the din        150
of rushing wave, and through the strain
of blessed anguish, sweet refrain
the music of the maiden grave
was heard throughout the fairy cave.

Then there, an oracle was made        155
of those last sorrows of the maid.
The mighty lord Esteletine,
the steward of the king divine
sat deep within his hall of stone
upon a high imposing throne.        160
And there, in solitude he thought
and new direction long he sought
amongst the rancour of the waves
that smote themselves upon his caves.
Yet in a calm and resting wind        165
did he the fruit of searching find.
"Take heed, the councils of the north,
that at their bidding, issue forth!"

The fay lord took these words to heart
and with much lore and subtle art        170
would leave the world of rock and foam
the wider fields above to roam.
And as he trod, his power grew;
the knowledge of this grace he knew
for as he stepped, new life would bloom        175
dispelling darkness, cold and gloom.
Such is the gifting of the fay
over the lands within their sway;
his secret comings healed the land
with graces borne from Fairyland.        180

What of the eastward faring snake,
the armoured beast, the mighty drake,
and of the treasure that he stole;
the sacred hoard he swallowed whole?
What of the knights that stood by him        185
when war was waged in valley grim,
and of the evil-laden host
that scar the Enedentian coast?
For many years in secret lay
the hidden refuge of the fay,        190
and in the while, commanding fear
upon the hills in fashion drear,
an eastern king, a faithless lord
sowed death with plague and beast and sword.

His secret will permeated all,        195
and freedom sought he to enthral
under the shadow of his wing.
By pain of death, the cruel king
drove westward to expand his reign
and fortify his dark domain.        200
Under the fateful, silver light
he drew his strength and grew in might,
contested by the hilly realms
now vanquished by two treacherous helms.
His malice spread, just as his name        205
was carried far, so grew his fame.
And this same name, which venom spread,
was Cancalon, the eastern dread.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
How was my language use?
Last few words: 
Big shame on me. I actually forgot all about Wesley's workshop, but not about the poem. I should have kept up interest by posting more, but I got a little (ok, a lot) discouraged. But what one must start, one must complete. I will be posting the rest of the poem, for whoever is still interested in the story. :) Also, I just noticed that many poems have been entered into the workshop. I'll have to catch up on my reading. See you in the comment stream!
Editing stage: 


realise that this workshop was even still alive. I like the story and your rhyming was pretty damn good, but...
there are a few places that it stumbles a little, upsetting the rhythm. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the story-line.
Too tired right now to point out what I mean, but will get back to you. ~ Gee

This must be the place, 'cause there ain't no place like this place anywhere near this place

Thanks so much Geezer. I'll be waiting for you to point them out. I'll give the poem another read to see what I can find.

I'll be posting the next canto up today. :-)

No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. - TS Eliot

author comment

Post the new canto? I'll look. Didn't see it. Would like that.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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The NeoPoet Mentor Program

That's a joke, but you don't know it yet.
First because I can. Question your meter on lines 24 (It's a name, so I think the meter can't be allowed to be in question because it screws with your chosen pronunciation. Some of your poetry is iambic, some trochaic, but mostly it makes the switch back and forth effortlessly. Sometimes I think a question of either/or could confuse a name's pronunciation) 8... which has a rule somewhere about why "each" should never be accented, but like a really clumsy teacher I can't remember it, also 60, 72, 105 (I don't like the rhyme cheat on 105/106), 108, 131, 178, 195. Those are the ones "I" tripped on.
As to story...

I don't have technical terms for this, so I've invented my own. You write (presently in this tale) in what I will call "The Eagle's View" perspective while I (presently in mine) am writing "Down and Personal". When you come up with better terminology, you tell me right away.
The Eagle's View is characterized by a long approach from a distance. It often covers many years in few lines, tends to involve masses of people over time and large events.
Down and Personal is characterized by individuals and their activities over a period short to the larger picture, but long to them.
Fifty Percent of Part Two of my poem I hope to write in The Eagle's View. The Ana and my submission to this workshop is Eagle's View. My major poem is seriously Down and Personal.
These are just observations and the management does not support or condemn either "view" point.
I'm printing the work as a whole, but do I have Canto Six?

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program

Alas, the meter problems will be many! I begun to tire as the poem wore on, and I remember one very sloppy canto I'm reluctant to edit. I may have been half asleep when typing it out. terrible grammar, horrible spelling and words that don't make sense :(

For the rhyme crimes, I'm sure I've committed worse. I particularly have a problem with "Aladice". I've used it against "ice" and "malice" so many times I have to hide my face.

On perspective, I started another long poem, not unconnected to this one, but of an earlier time. That one is more "down and personal" than this, though the pace is not as slow as yours.

You really must read that!

No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. - TS Eliot

author comment

And I thought it best to leave "ice" alone. It would grate on you soon enough.
I wouldn't worry overmuch about problems. Editing is critically important in any literature, but I think more so in epic poetry with so much to keep track of and so much territory to cover.
Just start editing and never stop.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program

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