This is the longest poem I've ever written. After reading a whole book of Norse mythology translated by Tolkein I had to write something of my own. :)
Red-tailed swans whirled over head;
Blue winged robins sang in their bed.
Deep in the forest, deep in the wood,
Wood chucks chucked as fast as they could.
Peter and Polly and all of the gang
Ruling the wood, so cheerfully sang.
They sang of a path hid in a rainbow
To a tiny castle in crystal snow.
They danced round a fire that crackled stern,
In shoes of spider silk and fern.
Though not a sound did their tiny feet make,
Their voices rose till the wood was awake.
They danced and danced under sun and moon
To the laughing jay and the weeping loon
Till all was quiet under the sky
And the air was thick with golden flies.
Then they hushed each noisy tongue
And crawled in beds in branches hung.
Soon each was asleep in silk cocoons
Under a sleepy soft, pale moon.
Each little eye shut, each breath a song,
Set to a meter slow and long.
Dreams swirled about their curly hair,
And tumbled out into open air.
And as they drowned in sleep so sweet
There came a noise from the wooded street.
Beneath their nests so warm and snug,
A woman walked on forest rug.
Shrouded in mist, clothed in shade,
She wandered between the grassy blades.
Each shriveled beneath her bone white feet
With helpless whispers of deathly sleep.
She circled around the children’s tree
Where they gently swung in the evening breeze.
With deep dark eyes she watched and brooded
Unseen among the trees thick wooded.
Morning arrived there golden and pink,
Greeted with dew drops and robin speech.
The sun awoke the sleeping tribe
Who leapt from their nests so silver and high.
Out they tumbled, one by one,
And soon they sleepily joined in song.
With a shout, Peter and all his brethren ran
To hunt beneath the rising sun.
They left little Polly, and as she stirred a broth,
She sighted a mushroom with spots like a moth.
Wood-wise, plant-wise, still she’s never seen
The like before of this mushroom being.
To her surprise a shadowed woman,
Untouched by morning dew or sun,
Appeared behind the old oak tree
Where she’d hidden in the shade unseen.
“Take, eat; the shroom is good,
And it will make more fine the food!”
Her voice was so with sweetness wed
That Polly did as the woman said.
She cut the shroom in twelve equal pieces,
One for each boy in twelve savory dishes.
She seasoned all with spice so rare
Till the lads arrived with a fresh slain hare.
Polly cooked them a meal of fragrant stuff
And bade them feast till they’d had enough.
In branch so high the woman sat
Her eyes twinkled and she smothered a laugh.
And as the chuckle touched her throat
All the poor boys with death were smote!
Each fell from his stump still clutching his spoon
And the forest was filled with the cries of a loon.
The woman be shadowed, be guiled, and blackened
Laughed in the face of Polly, sore stricken.
She laughed of her success and boasted her claim
Of the wooded kingdom as her own she named.
Her black smoke spread o’er all the wood
Like a stormy cloud, like an inky hood.
No more did the golden flies shine at night
No more did the red swans dance in flight.
All was silent beneath the trees
Save for the rustling, the shuffling of leaves.
Alone walked the woman, white and fair,
But a tremor of fear passed through the air.
Her hands reached into every breeze,
Cold hands chilling the rustling leaves…
But Polly ran, she ran alone,
Through earth and tree and wind and stone.
Till she came to a glad so quiet and green
And with heartbroken sobs sank to her knees.
Farewell to her brethren, farewell to her kin!
Farewell to Peter, the Forest King!
Farewell to her nest fellows, her brothers and boys;
Already she forgot the songs they enjoyed.
Exhausted with weeping, worn out with fear
She fell asleep while the shadows drew near.
Little hands gently carried her high
To treetops where the sun still shined.
They fed her and cared for her and made her their own:
In Fairyland Polly found a home.
Then one day she rose from her bed,
A beautiful maiden with a golden head.
Red lips she had, and bright eyes like gems,
A necklace of sun stars about her bosom.
The fairy queen saw her and knew in her heart
That the wood and her Mother should not be apart.
So Polly a maiden now strong and fair
Set out to the castle of the Shadow Mare.
(For that was what all the wood called her.
And save for that title, no name had she other.)
The Shadow Mare in eternal smoke
Sat and gazed at her forest below.
Though through murder she claimed that place,
She kept the land with a determined face.
One day she was startled to find at her door,
A poor maiden searching for work somewhere.
Her clothes were drab, her face all smudged,
Although the chain of sun stars the queen begrudged.
“I’ll give you work and bed at night
If you will give me your jewels so bright.”
And so it was that Polly worked
In the home of the woman that she abhorred,
And about that woman’s slender neck
Hung Polly’s hundred starry specks.
Yet little knew the queen as she drifted about
On mist and shadow like a dark storm cloud
That the necklace she boasted about her neck
Was enchanted by the fair folk.
And in that necklace there they bound
Twelve sad grievances into one.
And here lay the key enchantment
The necklace bearer’s unknown commitment:
That if ever the necklace was broke or burst
The curse upon the destroyer would thirst.
And so it was while Polly worked
Ever she sought the necklace to burst.
But to many things to wax and clean
Made her few chances even more mean.
And yet! There came a glistening day
(Glistening in tears and sad array):
The anniversary of the queen
To come into power over the woodlen beings.
A dark celebration she said it would be
When all must praise her wit and beauty.
The trees were covered to hide their green
And black was painted each robin’s wing.
As Polly trialed over a smoke grey cake
Deep in the castle, hot from the bake
She heard the bell that tinkled drear:
The queen desired to have her near!
Quickly Polly ran to the queen
Through halls of mushrooms and tall dark trees.
The queen commanded Polly cloth her fair
To celebrate the day so rare.
Soon covered in mist and smoking gauze
The queen was a beauty without spot or flaw.
At last she bade her servant place
Upon her bosom the glittering necklace.
Polly struggled and pretended to gasp,
At last pleading help with the stubborn latch.
The queen-- so angry, so fair, so white--
Reached back her hands to fix the plight.
Yet as soon as she grasped the necklace tips
Polly yanked the white hands—and the necklace ripped!
The little sun stars went scattering like bees
Falling in the floor’s cracks to hide from the scene.
Twelve deaths of laughing boys;
Twelve ends of merry joys;
Twelve sorrows deep and red;
Twelve losses to the Dead;
Twelve murders, one a king;
Twelve songs ended, no more to sing.
Each grief a torture, a blinding storm,
Now rushed upon the Shadow Mare’s form.
The pain, the grief, the guilt she felt
Ravaged and tore her blood apart.
Her suffering shrieks filled the air
Till all the wood stopped with open-mouthed stares.
Unbearable pain, unstoppable agony—
This was what drove her to jump off the balcony!
In one rush of wind her body fell
And left a pit like some undrinkable well.
Then Polly—so beautiful, so womanly, and fair--
Went to the balcony where all the wood stared
Throwing up her hands she at last remembered
The song of her brothers long ago dismembered.
Soon the woods were alive with songs of light
And the trees shook off their garments of fright.
Again danced the golden flies, again flew the swans
The sun rose once more and the mist was gone.
Through peaceful glade and meadow soft,
Again walked Polly, her head aloft.
And soon were the cocoons filled with children
And twelve happy voices sang in the glen.
J
