Arthurian Poems

At Tintagel
by Michael R. Burch

The legend of what happened "on a dark and stormy" night at Tintagel is endlessly intriguing. Supposedly, Merlin transformed Uther Pendragon to look like Gorlois so that Uther could sleep with Ygraine, the lovely wife of the unlucky duke. While Uther was enjoying Ygraine's lovemaking, Gorlois was off getting himself killed. Did Igraine suspect that her lover was not her husband? In any case, Artur/Artos/Arthur was the child conceived out of this supernatural (?) encounter.

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?

Originally published by Songs of Innocence, then subsequently by Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times

Isolde's Song
by Michael R. Burch

According to legend, Isolde and Tristram/Tristan were lovers who died, were buried close to each other, then reunited in the form of plants growing out of their graves. A rose emerged from Isolde's grave, a vine from Tristram's, then the two became one. Tristram was the Celtic Orpheus, a minstrel whose songs set women and even nature a-flutter.

Through our long years of dreaming to be one

we grew toward an enigmatic light

that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?

We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite

the lack of all sensation -- all but one:

we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright

at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.

To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.

We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt

spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash,

wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt.

We felt returning light and could not ask

its meaning, or if something was withheld

more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task.

At last the petal of me learned: unfold

and you were there, surrounding me. We touched.

The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,

and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch

Our Halloween, my wife Beth's favorite holiday along with Christmas, is an inheritance from the ancient Celts. The Celts believed that the "otherworld" can sometimes merge with the "real world, " so that elves, fairies, witches, warlocks and other fantastical entities are able to either help or harm human beings. Bedwyr was later Christianized as Bedivere.

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.

Originally published by Celtic Twilight, then by Celtic Lifestyles and Auldwicce

Morgause's Song
by Michael R. Burch

According to legend, Morgause was Arthur's half-sister. She seduced him and their son Mordred grew up to bring about the division of Arthur's kingdom, and his death.

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.

Originally published by Celtic Twilight as "The First Time"

Pellinore's Fancy
by Michael R. Burch

King Pellinore spent most of his time hunting an elusive "questing beast"... or was it just an excuse not to go home to the nagging missus?

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?

The Last Enchantment
by Michael R. Burch

This poem imagines Arthur speaking to his best friend, Lancelot, in some hazy underworld about Merlin's last enchantment, which was supposed to restore him to power...

Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend,

how time has thinned your ragged mane

and pinched your features; still you seem

though, much, much changed -- somehow unchanged.

Your sword hand is, as ever, ready,

although the time for swords has passed.

Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady

meeting mine... you must not ask.

The time is not, nor ever shall be.

Merlyn's words were only words;

and now his last enchantment wanes,

and we must put aside our swords...

Northern Flight: Lancelot's Last Love Letter to Guinevere

by Michael R. Burch

"Get thee to a nunnery..."

Now that the days have lengthened, I assume

the shadows also lengthen where you pause

to watch the sun and comprehend its laws,

or just to shiver in the deepening gloom.

But nothing in your antiquarian eyes

nor anything beyond your failing vision

repeals the night. Religion's circumcision

has left us worlds apart, but who's more wise?

I think I know you better now than then --

and love you all the more, because you are

... so distant. I can love you from afar,

forgiving your flight north, far from brute men,

because your fear's well-founded: God, forbid,

was bound to fail you here, as mortals did.

Originally published by Rotary Dial

Lance-Lot

by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!

Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron

brandishes his fearsome sword.

Truces
by Michael R. Burch

We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur's hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, quite possibly the son of Wayland Smith. The legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan...

Artur took Cabal, his hound,

and Carwennan, his knife,

and his sword forged by Wayland

and Merlyn, his falcon,

and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife,

he strode to the Table Rounde.

"Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad,

and here is Wygar that I wear,

and ready for war,

an oath I foreswore

to fight for all that is righteous and fair

from Wales to the towers of Gilead."

But none could be found to contest him,

for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth,

so he hastened back home, for to rest him,

till his wife bade him, "Thatch up the roof! "

Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, then by Celtic Twilight

Midsummer-Eve
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.

Originally published by Penny Dreadful

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 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, as though a 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.

Merlyn, on His Birth
by Michael R. Burch

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.

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.

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 kill 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.

Published by Celtic Twilight

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 simply 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, "

said Merlyn,

crowd-jostled, marveling

as Arthur drew forth Caliburn

with never a gasp,

with never a word,

and so became their king.

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.

Small Tales

by Michael R. Burch

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 most of their free time drinking and puking...

When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr

were but scrawny lads

they had many a boozy 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.

The Song of Amergin
by Michael R. Burch

Amergin is, in the words of Morgan Llywelyn, "the oldest known western European poet." Robert Graves said: "English poetic education should, really, begin not with The Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with the Song of Amergin." Amergin was one of the Milesians, or sons of Mil: Gaels who invaded Ireland and defeated the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, thereby establishing a Celtic beachhead, not only on the shores of the Emerald Isle, but also in the annals of Time and Poetry.

He was our first bard

and we feel in his dim-remembered words

the moment when Time blurs...

and he and the Sons of Mil

heave oars as the breakers mill

till at last Ierne -- green, brooding -- nears,

while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark

to climb and swamp their flimsy bark

... and Time here also spumes, careers...

while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay

to see him still the sea, this day,

then seek the dolmen and the gloam.

Stonehenge
by Michael R. Burch

Here where the wind imbues life within stone,

I once stood

and watched as the tempest made monuments groan

as though blood

boiled within them.

Here where the Druids stood charting the stars

I can tell

they longed for the heavens... perhaps because

hell

boiled beneath them?

The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch

"I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there." - Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans

There was relief there,

and release,

on Île Grosse

in the spreading gorse

and the cry of the wild geese...

There was relief there,

without remorse

when the tin whistle lifted its voice

in a tune of artless grief,

piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.

And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief,

but of their faith and belief --

like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.

When ravenous famine set all her demons loose,

driving men to the seas like lemmings,

they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death,

and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace.

These were proud men with only their lives to owe,

who sought the liberation of a strange new land.

Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row,

with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.

And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory,

reflects the death of sunlight on their story.

And their tale is sad -- but, O, their faith was grand!

At Cædmon's Grave

by Michael R. Burch

"Cædmon's Hymn, " composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village) , is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon's verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker's ghoulish yet evocative Dracula.

At the monastery of Whitby,

on a day when the sun sank through the sea,

and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,

while the wind and time blew all around,

I paced those dusk-enamored grounds

and thought I heard the steps resound

of Carroll, Stoker and of Bede

who walked there, too, their spirits freed

-- perhaps by God, perhaps by need --

to write, and with each line, remember

the glorious light of Cædmon's ember,

scorched tongues of flame words still engender.