Ragnarok - Prologue
#1 of Ragnarok
There's going to be a lot of this.
Ragnarok is over a hundred pages of Iambic Pentameter. It took me several years to write. I couldn't find any form of publication that was interested, and actually made my tumblr, initially, to have someone to post it.
Seeing as I'm now here, you can guess how that went.
I won't blame anyone for not being into it. But at least this way, if no one hears it, it will not be because I failed to speak it.
"Amidst the journey of our life
I awoke in a dark wood"
- Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy
"In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame
'I am leaving I am leaving' but the fighter still remains."
- Paul Simon, The Boxer
Eternal Rest Grant Unto Them, O Lord,
And Let the Perpetual Light Shine Upon Them,
And May the Souls of the Faithful Departed,
Through the Mercy of God,
Rest In Peace.
- Prayer for the Dead, Traditional
The muses have been silent for too long.
They speak no more of towers topless-tall,
Nor intellectual lightning filled with love.
They justify no ways of god to man.
They seek no sign in dark seas riding high.
The poets wander witless far away.
They lack madness divine. They cannot sing
But briefly and of things particular.
The world escapes their words. They do not see
The constellations of the things men love
Spread out beneath their feet like fiery jewels.
How shall I sing this weighty tale alone?
Of Shane the Champion, and those who stood
Beside him, as a world went down to dark.
How he escaped our age of grime, into
A place of clarity and cold, where harsh
Are deeds, and worthy of remembering.
The deaths of gods and heroes are my notes,
Their swords my instruments, my beat their breath.
I only lack for lyrics, and a voice
To feed them swiftly to my hungry brain.
But muses speak no more. I know not how
To call them down again, to wake them up,
To catch their bright contagion of the tongue,
Then I could speak as I would speak. For now,
I cast my invocation to the winds
To carry as they will, to any power
That may yet be awake enough to move
And answer. May they carry it to gods
Of pine colossus and infinite plain.
May they invoke for me the homeless shades
Cast out by thankless lands for which they mourn.
May they call down St. Michael and St. George,
Who know what courage is, better than I.
Or may they find again the ancient nine
Grown old, grandmotherly, and nearly blind,
To stir their holy madness one last time.
Or may they come and answer it themselves.
I am content, and will no more require,
So long as any spirit drives me on
To burn my words as fireworks, expire,
And leave mankind's last epic when I'm gone.