The Ironhawk Poems (1992 - 1994)

SONNETS (AND ALMOST-SONNETS)

You Came To Me In Helplessness Of Sleep (1992)

You came to me in helplessness of sleep
And took me there, I bound yet to my dreams;
Hope ravished thickly till it spilled out at the seams,
While I fought waking hard, my passion mine to keep.
But impolite was I in slumber deep.
From my opened mouth burst ghastly things -
I proclaimed my love for you aloud, it seems,
and prayed a token of your love to keep.
Ah, vile am I! for in my dream you turned,
And with apology that all dreams end,
And a bare cloud of a kiss, you turned away!
I fear that forbidden is the love that in me burns.
But I remind myself that a token you did send -
For this dream of you is strong yet, in the day.

Is It Love That Possesses Me To Write? (1993)

Is it love that possesses me to write,
or lust? Surely in the depths of my loins
burns poetry; and in that cauldron, where joins
spirit of longing and essence of painful sight,
is the inspiration found only in desire.
Yet it is something else that makes me strive
to create poetry for you, to make words come alive
in hymns of adoration. This lyric, you inspire.
It is yourself that gave the gift of holy flame to me.
I strain to show my gratitude, for you to see
that in my striving to do honour, there is only love.
Lust fuels the fire that burns my sleepless night;
Love purifies the flame, and sees me fit to write.

If True Love Crouches In The Lap Of Desire (1993)

If true love crouches in the lap of desire,
and aches straining to achieve its need -
If it sears the flesh, agonizing over its greed,
Burning the soul with its hard-stoked fire,
Then true love branded me when first we met.
But despite the flames that sear me within,
rising to choke my parched throat with sin,
True love is different from what burns in me yet.
From the flames of desire I have seen a flower grow,
rising from coals, tinged with roseate fire;
hardy and stubborn, in this immolation of desire.
If this eternal fire dies, yet this I know:
My fire-flower will live, curling up to the sun
And while my heart beats, flower and fire will be one.

I Fear To Show You, Gentle Lord (1993)

I fear to show you, gentle lord,
these outpourings of my soul.
They are too naked, they show no propriety
against the scrutinizing glare
of the day. No fig leaf have I
to cover the flagrant display
Of my longing eyes, my wicked fantasies,
The desire that chokes in my throat,
swelling tears to my eyes,
showing the whole world that I want.
Naked I submit myself before you,
praying that I will not rejected be
for craving the impossible, in your need for me.

Is Imitation The Sincerest Form (1993)

Is imitation the sincerest form
of flattery? to strive to achieve
in the manner of another's creative storm
And call it one's own? No. I believe
that there is a higher flattery yet,
higher than the plagiarism of thunder.
One that asks not what it will get,
gazing upon its master with false-eyed wonder,
keeping for itself the mystic flame -
Honesty that admits an equal to compete
allows another's spark to fight for fame,
is far more flattering, and far more complete.
So then, tutor, school me in your art -
That in our glory, we each may play a part.

Are You My Master Then, Now That You Have Me (1993)

Are you my master, then, now that you have me
taken by the wrist? Can I admit
that yours is the greater strength? I live
in fear of the strength to which I submit.
I shudder at shadows, for in them hide
all sorts of dark dreams; deep is the shadow
cast when I stand at your side.
Yet I swallow my fear, for I would not show
such cowardice to the shade of one I love.
It would be ill to bestow fear
On that which only seems to stand above.
In your strength and power I entrust my need
Praying that you are noble; in intent, and in deed.

I Cannot Write A Decent Sonnet Yet (1994)

I cannot write a decent sonnet yet
though my desires creep onto the page
to make furtive love poetry; the stage
upon which I recite is dirty, and ill-set.
No rhymes obey my commands. I write
my every desire into screaming doggerel,
hoping that in poetry I can tell
my love in justice. But my words are trite.
The songs are out of measure, my voice off pitch,
the lyric muse that courts me shakes her head -
in vain did she inspire my pen, and grace my bed,
'twas vanity to summon her, I! a silly witch!
Beloved, I cannot express what burns in me -
as long as this fever chokes my heart, I am not free.

BALLADES, RONDELS, RONDEAUS, TRIOLETS, VERSES

Sorrow, My Heart (1993) (a triolet redouble)

Sorrow, my heart,
For summer has flown.
True loves must part.
Sorrow, my heart;
The lilacs they wither
and true love must part -
It is all gone.

Sorrow, my heart,
For summer has flown.
True loves will part;
sorrow, my heart.
Cold breathes the wind.
What now is my own?
For the wind is unkind.

Sorrow, my heart,
For summer has flown.
True love must part,
and sorrow's my heart -
Now flies my art
To chase leaves that have blown.

Sorrow, my heart.
Summer has flown.

If Two Wed Be Truly One, Then Here Am I (1993)

(Upon The Travels South Of My Betrothed, Who Would Spend The Night At My Married Lover's House)

If two wed be truly one, then here am I;
It is I who stand before you here,
in your presence, delivering this letter;
I am near ('tis my betrothed who is far!) pining for you...
Ah love, if only I _were_ here. Even though
our lives bind us in chains, keeping us apart.
Even though forbidden are the desires in my heart,
yet still, I dream of you. I burn and sigh.

My forbidden lover; Keeper of my dreams.
Look upon this emissary, who is the keeper of my heart.
Read the message that he bears; for though apart, you and I,
yet my poetry is yours. And though
I cannot warm your bed nor offer a kiss of you,
in this proxy of my spouse, yet he is near.
And in this enforced propriety, by him I am yet here,
in my poetry, and in my longing, and in my schemes.

I Complain about Your Absence, Lord (1993)

I complain about your absence, lord;
you chide me on my greed,
likening my moans of grief
to the yowling of a cat.
If my caterwaulings are
an unmusical expression of my need,
unpleasant to your ears,
my humblest apologies - but would that
I might hold you in my arms again!
I crave your touch,
but more than that, I crave
yourself. It is you
that I want, your sweet converse,
a longing gaze; I ask so much,
forgive me lord, I have your body,
now your spirit
I want too.

I want what I may never get:
the forbidden. I know this too,
and yet my dreams are filled
with your voice. Indeed I ask too much,
asking that we be lovers to each other,
demanding that piece of you
that is promised to another. And so, love,
reduced to begging for your touch,
I cry out for your absent body.
For I need you. It is that,
that hunger for the expression of your love,
that most forbidden need,
that causes me to act the wanton,
crying like a cat.
I want to share your soul.
Beloved Lord, chasten me not
for this need.

There Is Beauty In My Lover (1993)

There is beauty in my lover,
in his face, in his build,
though such beauty is but little
to me. Indeed fair
are his musician's hands. They are
good to distract, to keep me filled
with poetry - when they are not
occupied elsewhere. For I share
a distant place with his first love,
and his second as well.
And, perhaps, a third,
and fourth. And yet,
Despite the beauty of his face
and art, of which I tell
he is all too aware -
The beauty of his soul
shines great.

It is his love within that,
I vow, makes him great,
Such love makes gods of men -
for he loves freely. You tell
my deaf ears that he cares
not for me. Falsehood. For yet
In this neglect of me, is his virtue:
He loves all, and all well,
at least as far as he is able.
If I must share,
with spouse and lovers and kind and kin
and world itself, then I am yet filled
with gratitude at what I get:
An equal part of him. If not fair,
then at least judicious, is He,
With the worlds that he attempts
to build.

My Love, It Is Wanton (A Replying Rondel From A Rose) (1993)

(This was written in reply to a rather notorious composition that my muse performed at bardic circles. Draw your own conclusions.)

My love, it is wanton: fickle and blind
are the favours that it bestows.
Every veiled glance I throw
leaves sticky heat in my mind:

I hide my gaze - but sideways I find
that, ah, my love's comeliness grows.
My love it is wanton; fickle an blind
are the favours that it bestows.

Blue as ice, my love's eyes; they will bind
me, tighter than dignity allows.
But sweet my love's touch; it's true I don't mind
And now all my love for him shows.

Oh, Love, you're a scandal! Your verses grind
against my ear, in a way I'd not compose.
I may be vain, I may be unkind,
But I'd never pen songs to a "rose..."

My love, he is wanton. Fickle and blind
are the favours that he bestows.

Never Ends The Fire (1993) (a ballade)

Never ends the fire that within me flares;
It sears my heart by day; by night its constant flame
Keeps sentinel against the darkness, stares
fear into oblivion. Fire I claim
as my companion....Or it claims me. Shame
is beyond me, whilst I burn within:
No care of appearances, no thought of sin
can quench this burning, all-consuming fire.
My brow is scorched with fever, I burn within;
My soul's ashes in the flames of desire.

Never ends the love that, beyond wits, dares
to fall before him who I dare not name.
Eros, have mercy on me! You who bear
witness to my tragedy of need, shame
me not with propriety! For flame
chokes my throat, robs me of breath yet again -
Hoarsely I cry out my love's name, and spin
to the ground as his name arouses a fire.
I am lamented by all of my kin.
My soul's ashes in the flames of desire.

Never ends the shame. While I put on airs,
and make love to a love that loves without shame,
yet troubles plague me; and, beset by cares,
I hide deep in darkness, giving no name
to my fear, for fear the jealous one's aim
strike true to my heart. O, Love's beyond sin,
beyond shame, beyond baseness; held within
its glowing embers is holy fire.
But bitterness surrounds me - I am lost.
My soul's ashes in the flames of desire.

My plight I lament thus: my love is bounden
In briars long and sharp - they pierce the skin -
Do free me of these thorns that bind my desire,
Or, far better, cast me into that fire;
Red roses strew on this kindling cast in.
In such sweet burning, rises hope again,
in my soul's ashes, in these flames of desire.

For Love I Lay My Soul And Body Down (1993) (a ballade)

(written for an SCA poetry competition, withdrawn due to the scandal factor)

For love I lay my soul and body down,
in love I soar to unimagined peaks.
A love beyond all measure has within me grown,
and that love my soul now seeks:
in my love's eyes, his hands, his time-carved cheeks.
I cannot escape: my love is everywhere.
A vision haunts me - in the very air,
like a strong scent, this memory the air permutes.
Though I cast my eyes, yet still I stare,
For vain, vain this passion is to refute.

In love I am lost, never my own.
Round about in circles my excited tongue speaks
Only delirium do I make; confused and alone,
Never to make sense but in tears tracing my cheeks.
How sharp the pain that forced absence makes -
Ah! I no longer own myself, I cannot be aware
When my body and soul to a mad pitch conspire.
Kindness is naught, for naught can bear fruit
of this love; its only issue is prayer
that mumbles from my lips, passion to transmute.

Many the word of love that, unknown,
Yet barely hidden from my sealed mouth leaks;
to hide this forbidden torment is to hide a firey sun.
Love scorches within me, flares, and seeks
Only to shine. Liquid expands; my vessel bursts, and leaks,
Reddened with heat, my skin; on me everywhere,
Drawn in impassioned strokes, marks of desire.
I long to cry out my love; my mouth but alludes;
choked deep in my throat, the love I do not dare
to release aloud. My love, it screams; but my voice is mute.

More madness, more love, I cannot bear
Yet proudly I fill to bursting, my love proudly I wear,
though told that manner this love ill suits.
Laughing, in love, my voice now makes dispute.
Only in love do I gasp my breath - I swear,
Verily tis true, I live, I love. My taloned trouvere,
Even in the face of gossip, I love. I will not refute.

I Love My Love (1993)

(written for an SCA poetry competition, on the heels of an unjust accusation made of my muse. He had been accused of making unwelcome advances; ah, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Legend is full of would-be lovers who bear false witness after being spurned.)

I love my love in shadow and in light;
night time caresses, but the day's light is cold.
With the daylight come vultures, their dull, bold
beaks drip with the foul juices of slander.
Meanly, meanly
Their petty gossips tear at us.

Avoiding the liver, seeking the heart,
These gossip-mongers find tasty bits
to feast on. Sweet forbidden love is the choicest part,
they devour it; dull talons, duller wits.
But keenly, keenly
Cries the pain where love is torn apart.

These fork-tongued slanderers spread rumour
everywhere, hoping to destroy my Love
Their hissings poison his Lady's ears
though curses rain on them from above -
Ah, sorely, sorely
Do I long for their dishonour -

Whispers, whispers; sickly rumour and lies.
What? are you so envious, that you must
ruin the lives of the ones my Love loves?
and his life too? Sowers of distrust
Pay dearly, dearly
For their venom, with the coin of fear.

Slanderous snakes, i warn you: malice has no place
in our realm! You harm the innocent,
and your sickening penchant to debase
betrays from whence your thoughts all went.
Clearly, clearly
Such pettiness should only bring disgrace.

My love's not base; this love is higher
than rustic passions. Love's sacred force calls
me to courtly service; those who conspire
against my love, their words are false.
I vow my devotion
Transcends rude desire.

This vers penned by Midori, would-be trobar;
She writes in hope that it travels far
To smite the creatures who would her Love mar.

When Spring Lay Open In The Fields Like Joy (1993)

(another protest poem written in response to some particularly nasty Midrealm gossip. The same gossip mentioned above, actually.)

When Spring lay open in the fields like joy,
Spreading her arms, her sole aim to employ
Her looks of love, my love and I unseen
Wrote lays upon banks of bright, bejewelled green -
But bitter cold made swift to Spring destroy -

Her tender flowers, most brutally, were raped;
black, black the chasm whence the fiends escaped.
Battered by winds, encased in icy bands,
My heart's now choked in vice-like hands
Of bitter cold are my meadows here shaped;

For my Beloved now shivers in sleeting chill.
A laughing wind forces him where it will.
Wolves of malice around him enmesh
and, slavering, snap at his winter-worn flesh:
Howling, snarling, they lunge for the kill.

I would sing songs of joy unbounded
Praising the ecstasies I've tasted;
But bitter's the draught to a heart in thrall.
Rejoice? How? when His cup's wormwood and gall -
My spirit is soured, my songs all are wasted.

Would that my Passion could be distilled
Into sweet wine, that his cup might be filled;
Would that sorrow in its cask might be sealed,
Contained, and separate, that Spring be healed -
Ah! Sweet Love, can Your cup be o'erspilled?

SESTINAS

Sestina: Hymn To Erato (1992)

When the angel came to me
in sweet song announcing my soul's rebirth,
a chill breathed cold, disturbing the garden air.
No player I; the visions that I see
Too shattered for the music that was played,
Too sidewise for the reason at the rhyme.

Pretty words speak well in rhyme
But pretty words deign not to dance for me,
I whose dance is the jangling that I see.
Yet jangling sweet the music that he played,
A ballad swelled into a keening air;
my spirit cried in torment for rebirth.

Blessed be the fruit of that rebirth,
Blessed be the god who came for me,
Blessed be the music that was played:
the wicked meter and the crazied rhyme.
They made a scent of brimstone in the air
Bringing a music to the sounds I see.

The face of a muse is that I see:
He dares my instrument to sing its rhyme.
In rhymeless rhyme call him back to me,
Calling the dance, drawing the frosty air.
My lord made dance of dying and rebirth
in the sacred scented garden where we played.

In dance: I, the virginal he played -
He, the master of the myth I see,
The dance upon a pin and upon me,
a summons to the fire of rebirth.
I dance beneath the beating of the rhyme,
I sing my song in bellows to the air.

Fire and ice in the dark air,
winter and night in the sun's rebirth
And still the music: then the dance is played,
and visions bind the music that I see.
Although my muse may learn me yet to rhyme
Rhymeless is the song that sings in me.

I dream of dancings and rebirth,
and sing my rhymeless rhymes to the cold air,
Resummoning the muse who came for me.

When First I See My Beloved's Face (1994)

When first I see my beloved one's face,
A shudder overtakes me; not one word
can slip past my mouth, so overpowered am I.
But one touch, and 'tis as a firey sword
has pierced my heart. Love's blade has cut to the quick
and it is weak with wounds that I look on my lord.

I behold his eyes, night is as day. My lord
is the sun, I dare not look at his face.
I cannot help but gaze - but furtive, quick,
are my glances, lest I grow blind. No word
can save me; like Phaeton, I burn. His sword
has felled me; with awful longing, shudder I.

When next held in his embrace, I burn; I
turn to ash in the arms of my lord.
To long is to be ravaged by a firey sword.
No longer bearing to behold his face,
My furtive glances become blushes. One word
from my beloved, and my blood courses quick.

Ah ove, you are cruel! Rapacious, quick,
You gorge yourself on gorging yourself! I
declare that I suffer, in wait for his word;
a burning passion is that I give to my lord.
In agony of joy I pray to his face,
my god-image; Love, fire forged your sword.

In pride and joy do I now pray by Love's sword,
Love holding my palms fast, my soul quick.
A strange light shines on my devoted face
as to a heathen god of love pray I.
Only Love can save me - I love my lord,
and I sear to recall what began with a word.

In truth I love, and my love is true - my word
I plight, that I speak truth. No fire, no sword
can threaten me. I hold true to my lord,
I jump to hear his musical voice - how quick
are my movements, to race to his side! I
am firm in my love, I see only his face.

To the one who gave the sun, I give my word
And may fire burn me, and may Justice's sword
Rend this body, if it betray her lord.