Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.

The Harper's Song

Of days of old, the harpers sing,
of Melegrond, their fallen king.
The time the Calotans were wronged,
and gathered they; a sullen throng.

Naught would lift their great sadness:
as one, they wept in brokenness.
In sullen quiet, silenced, stood
as Nature likened to their mood.

Bereft of power, torn from grace
and robbed by an immortal race,
some swore a pact of vengeance not,
lest they too share the fairy's lot.
But in some others, anger crept
whene'er they woke, whene'er they slept.
They swore a testament of grief
that should their lives be sad and brief
all doom within their power wrought
should bring their enemies to naught.

Deed was done and Fate had spoken:
bled by fay. New life was taken:
so must Death now leave her halls;
o'er all the world, her power falls.
And as lay Melegron in ruin,
fruit of error, Molloch's doing,
Death must all the outlands waste;
immortal life, her sting, must taste.

And in her train must walk Justice
down from her lofty edifice
atop her domineering height
where tales unfold within her sight;
the sickle bearing last harvester
under whom the nations gather
to be blest with life eternal
or be curst by end infernal.

So must pass the endless days
in wake of Death and of Decay.
And swiftly as the winds will tell
the harper's song, with sorrow spell,
of coming blackness from the deep;
about their vale, a shadow creeps
as Molloch, proud, commands its helm
as lord and king of nether-realms,
with legions many, black and fell
begotten from the depths of hell,
in caverns 'neath the Ancient Night
where lost is hope and dim is light.

He sped his train of fallen fay
along a bitter, ruinous way
into the vale of Calotans
beneath the sky of Cardolan.

O, still, the crying winds will tell
of weeping minstrels, whispering, spell:

In Cardolan, the day was grim,
from valley's pit to valley's rim,
he bathed his heels in pools of blood,
destruction brought him like a flood.

All Cardolan was now a grave.
Though faint was hope, some, Hope did save.
But nearly all were brought to sword;
defenceless, doomed at Molloch's word.
By this, did he avenge disgrace,
and stained forever was his race.

'T was not that he had lost his will,
for even above the fairy's skill,
the power to wield a boundless soul
have they not, though with spirits bold,
forever bound in deed and thought
were they, by Uniel's wisdom wrought.
For as is willed by Uniel Lord,
the race immortal, by his word
are ever bound, so shall it be
from nearest land till boundless sea,
that which is written by the hand
that filled the seas and raised the land.

For he had let Fate loose upon
the destiny of wisest born,
and though with Will, she must contend
and mighty scaffold, try she bend,
it is their doom, and shall it be;
the graceful wisest are not free.

So that is how it is explained:
the age when innocent were slain
and Death, from everlasting shadow crept,
and how the reign she now has kept
begun from days of innocence
till fairies pay the recompense.

But Justice, great of liberties
and faithful to Equality
has left a road, a path to take
to right the wrong and alter Fate.
And even so, she searches long
Amongst Tirilien's doomed throng,
that payment must be swiftly dealt
to him who long in dark thought dwelt.

It is a game played by the Queens
of heaven's heights, the dreads unseen.
And Fate now quickly moves his feet,
who hastens on without retreat,
and Will and Justice gather round
fair Elanorien's beauteous mound.
Anelion's princes, blessed three
whose might and power sets all free.

About them mustered fairy arms;
contraptions to defend from harm.
Their speckled shields, their mighty blades
that glisten in Tirilien's shade,
their heads adorned with mighty helms
all forged to save the fairy realms
from passion wronged, desire inflamed
from Fate's old trappings: ill untamed.

The fairies, bold and stern, serene
against this wild and hostile being
as Molloch, now assumed in form,
though ever fair, the second born.

About him, shades of rendered thought:
the life, which with his arts he wrought
with matter from the Ancient Night
turned sweet to sour, turned bloom to blight.
Elanorien was ever scarred
and fairy grace by fairy marred.

The clouds were dark, the light was dim,
as Molloch led his forces grim.
A blemish on the blessed plain
where good Anelion was slain.

Now stood those three, the brother kings
before the storm, the minstrels sing:

And in that day was Death made glad
as fairy folk, in armour clad
slew brother fairy, like of kin;
a bloody sacrifice to win
the freedom of the outer lands
from Fate's stern, unyielding hands.
And Will and Justice, 'gainst all hell
where blade met shield, and hammer fell,
lifted the hearts of those whose good
against the hoards of evil stood.

Their blood flowed freely on the plain
as brothers were by brothers slain
before the gates of Tirilien
in once fair Elanorien.

Then Alphi, dread Lord of pixies
who of the wise alone, are free,
spoke incantations called from high
to hide his realm from 'neath the skies,
for fairy folk, he trusted not
and would not stand their evil lot.
The once esteemed immortal race
had fallen from their divine grace.

By Alphi's word, the pixies crept
in hidden caves, their treasures kept.
But Molloch's generals, quick they were
and some had learned of Alphi's lair.

They quickly gathered forces strong,
their sway to lengthen, war prolong.
So march they did, an army bred
for evil ends, their captains led
these formed in shadow, these things wrought
in Molloch's heart, by Molloch's thought.
The great worm Golmech at the helm
of forces sent to break the realm.

Their errand was of greatest need.
To Fate's warnings did Molloch heed,
for even in his darkest dreams
His victory unlikely seemed.

The pixie's ancient pow'r he knew.
Though their numbers counted few,
they were the might of Uniel;
far flew their shafts. Their blades were fell.
Before the dawn of fairy light,
were they sent to contest with Night.
They hindered Chaos, him they fought,
and dreadful was the power they wrought.

And in those first days of the morn
before the break of fairy dawn
they stood guard at An Cirion
about the birth of the first born.
Though only shards of fallen star,
the youthful Chaos sought to mar.
The first of fairy-kings they raised
and by the ancients, they are praised
above all else. The steadfast blest
are ever at Uniel's behest.
They shall make war, or shall bring peace
till restless longings ever cease.

But no new word from Uniel came,
as twilight wore, and darkness flamed.
And though the wise don't comprehend,
at least, their home must they defend.

Alas, before the break of morn,
the pixies heard the battle horns
of Golmech's throng, beneath the skies;
their armour shines, their banners fly.
And roars a tyrant of the night,
his legions trusting in their might.
The walls of Pix beneath them shake,
and shudders gate, and towers quake.

The citadel of Alphi stands
serene beneath his golden hands.
His people silent, bold they are
and well inclined when nations war;
for war, the sons or pixies breed
to help their friends in time of need.

The war-birds scream. The trumpets blast.
In Elanorien, war at last
has fallen. Death will hold the sway
from bitter night to cruel day.

On marches Golmech, host and all,
to war within Lord Alphi's halls.
Still they are silent, they are grim.
The hoards are in. Their cries are dimmed.
The minstrels know not what befell
when pixies faced the hosts of hell.

Nought of Pix was heard again;
no news of victor or of slain.
But ages passed, and Alphi's doing
was beheld in Golmech's ruin.
On mountain side, his carcass cast,
and Molloch's fortunes failed at last.

So now, the pixies, ever watchful
earned the hate of him untrustful.
In his heart there lingered fear
of unseen wrath from pixies drear.
Doromiel knew they shall not succour;
shall not aid him in his labour
even as the storm crows gathered
and his foes about him mustered:
e'en on golden Tirilien,
in once fair Elanorien.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
This is the second poem in the project I'm working on. I finally has the time to type it out and edit it a bit. Its a very rough draft. Your help is most welcome. *I took the suggestions by Nordic Cloud and Juddyanne, and I'm submitting it to Wesley's workshop.
Editing stage: 

Comments

"Naught would lift their great sadness:
as one, they wept in brokenness.
In sullen quiet, silenced, stood
as Nature likened to their mood."

I loved the first verse and was geared to continuing,
but this verse with its repetition of saddened/sadness,
put me off, until I got going again, then...

"and in her train, it should suffice,
and swiftly follow must Justice;"

A bit stretched the rhyme of the two last words in the rows.
This verse trips up a bit for me on rhythm and meaning,
and then my concentration got lost, but I might come again
and try to concentrate enough to finish it with understanding.

This is not to say anything except that I am lazy today,
and this poem would be wonderful to send a little boy to sleep,
and give him some exciting things to dream about! :)

Nordic cloud.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

I half expected this. My meter is still bad, and I really like your suggestions. I somehow get the feeling that when you're in the "thick of things" you sometimes can miss what works.

I'll take my time with this. Thank you Nordic

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

http://www.wsgeorge.com/

author comment

I enjoyed this write. I’m a little tired, having been at work all day, so I haven’t taken in the full story – I will be back to read it when i’m able to concentrate more

there were a few things I noticed on my way through – now remember I am tired and may be misreading – even then it is all imho

.‘and in her train, it should suffice,
and swiftly follow must Justice’
‘suffice’ and ‘justice’ don’t rhyme to my ear

‘So that is how it is explained:
the age when innocent were slain
and Death, from everlasting shadow crept,
and how the reign she now has kept
begun from days of innocence
till fairies pay the recompense’
I really like this stanza. I like the pause in the read here where you use pentameter
‘and Death, from everlasting shadow crept’

‘It is a game played by the Queens’
suggestion
‘It is a game that’s played by Queens’ (better iambic)

‘from Fate's stern, unyielding hands.’ – I don’t know if you are aware that this line is an iamb short – but the comma works for me anyway…

‘The citadel of Alphi stands
silent beneath his golden hands.’ – this is a sudden trochaic, and imo needs a tweak to iambic, as it really affects the rhythm here.
You have also used ‘silent’ again in the next line
‘His people silent, bold they are’

‘was beheld in Golmech's ruin’ - ‘was beHELD…’ and also to my ear it sounds short an iamb because of the feminine ending with only eight syllables… not badly affecting the read, but a little.

as said, I enjoyed the story
it is very well written
love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

I'm glad you enjoyed it, and yes, the points you raise are right. I had a problem with the suffice-justice rhyme.
As this poem means so much to me, I'll take my time and walk through the poem to make it better.

Thanks for your help.

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

http://www.wsgeorge.com/

author comment

workshop is still open?
http://www.neopoet.com/workshop/storytelling-verse

Take this to the master.

I'm afraid my poor scattered head is unable to do this justice at the moment.

cheers,
Jess
A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'
https://www.neopoet.com/workshop/rhythm-and-meter-poetry

, and that's what I'll do. But I'll first have to clean up a few messes in there before he sees this one.

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

http://www.wsgeorge.com/

author comment
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.