June 24, 2009
Caer Ibomeith
I believe it means "love unrequited" in... faerie. Or something. I don't remember; it was over twenty years ago. It's the name of a poem I wrote on Valentine's Day of 1988, about a painting a saw in a book. The painting is La Belle Dam Sans Merci (The Beautiful Lady Without Pity) by Sir Frank Dicksee.
Please bear in mind that I was eighteen and terminally retarded when I wrote this drivel. Feel free to skim.
* * * * *
The trees gleem bare and black.
The earth is white and still.
'Tis the season of mists,
and a solitary knight
wanders the Kentish Hills.
He is still a very young man,
but his gait is shambling and slow.
The once-handsome face
is now strained and pale,
sunken eyes hold no more glow.
In the summer of that year,
the land was perfumed and hazy.
The air was laden
with the scent of primrose,
the dawn was as bright as a daisy.
One bright morning, he set out
the join the army of the king,
but the lanes were quiet,
so he slowed his horse
to listen to the blackbirds sing.
When into his dreams came a noise,
a fluttering near a tall oak.
He dismounted his horse
and strode to the tree,
yet no one replied when he spoke.
"Come out!" he called to the laughter.
And a woman, with eyes like a fawn,
stepped lightly before him
and stood in the lane.
She seemed to be clothed with the dawn.
Her robe was made of rose petals;
her head, crowned by fiery hair.
With a gaze as shy
as a wild forest creature's,
she met the knight's loving stare.
All thoughts of his duty then vanished.
His journey had lost its true course.
She willingly came
to his outstretched arms,
and he lifted her onto his horse.
In a language he'd never before heard,
she whispered, and the horse turned its head.
Towards sunny meadows
that lay beyond,
through the trees they started to thread.
They traveled that way for hours,
now in forest, now in field.
From time to time,
the lady spoke softly.
The knight plucked the meadow's fair yield.
From his flowers, she fashioned a garland,
a crown for her blazing red hair.
When the sun shone high,
she began to sing
to the knight who accompanied her there.
She leaned down and peered into his eyes,
with the afternoon sun at its peak,
and the look was of such
an absorbing love
that his longing forbade him to speak.
She continued to weave her net
of melodies 'round the knight,
who forgot all caution
and blessed the heavens,
forseeing none of his plight.
With the afternoon drawing to a close,
she spoke, and the horse stopped its pace.
In a small group of birches,
he lifted her down
and gazed once more into her face.
He saw there inexpressable saddness.
Tears glistened in her moss-green eyes.
He kissed her then,
but she drew away
and sang him her grieving good-byes.
Light as the mist, her voice coiled
around him; his eyes fought to close.
He swayed for a moment,
then sank to the ground,
but he just couldn't leave his fair rose.
He glimpsed, for a moment, her draperies
and the bright tendrils of her hair.
She bent to watch him,
the leaves spun above,
so he closed his eyes and slept there.
Dawn came, and the knight awoke
with a premonition of dreadful grief.
The lady was gone,
having taken his heart--
an aching her could not believe.
Each hour, he knew, would be empty.
It was as if he had watched her die.
A life of yearning
was all he would know,
of calling to hear no reply.
Sick with desire, he rose
and searched through field and pine,
retracing their path
again and again,
but still he could find no sign.
The first day passed, and the next.
The flowers faded in the fields.
The birds ceased singing,
and still the knight wandered,
while the farmers harvested their yields.
Through the long months, he hunted,
a silhouette, frail and gaunt.
The pale, winter moon
barely lights his way,
bereft of hope, but not want.
Now, he can walk no further,
drained of all youth and power.
He finally lies down,
the wind starts to moan,
and he dies, all alone, that same hour.
The farmers who find the body
say little, their faces set grim.
But safe in their homes,
they whisper of magic
and the love that had victimized him.
Mortal-Fairy love run deep.
Of its current, you'd best be wary
and speak with fear,
as all mortals do,
who speak of the powers of Fairy.
* * * * *
Oh my God, it just goes on and on and on, doesn't it?! Yes, Wenchie used to be a hopeless romantic. Try not to faint.
I imagine this is what it was like for Bruce Campbell when he and I first met...
Comments
so. they fucked, right?
Posted by: heather at June 24, 2009 09:51 AM