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Category: Benjish literature

Yearglass

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We see and stand as though entranced
The brightest vision along the shore.
Right through the fiery furnace
Across the dunes of time,
Beyond the cathedral:
A place sublime.
Slowly falling,
Sinking,
Grating,
Numerous
Beads of glass.
The age of glory fallen
New things come to pass.
The sands of time are falling
Into the bottomless pit. Behold!
They come now shifting: tiny bits of grit.

 

Poet’s note: Although filled with symbolism and seeming meaning, this poem is totally nonsense. It represents nothing, it foretells nothing. It is simply a very spacial poem that I wrote for school on March 19th, 2007.

Pæan of Joy

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What a wonderful day!
As I walked through the woods,
As I noticed where deer had late lain.
And I whistled a tune that nobody’s heard
And that no one will hear again.

On grass and on stone
Did my light footsteps tread,
As I marched through the rugged terrain.
And I whistled a tune that nobody’s heard
And that no one will hear again.

The mockingbird sang
(Oh that plagiarist bird!),
Sang the notes of my new-found refrain,
As I whistled a tune that nobody’s heard
And that no one will hear again.

With the gay sunshine bright
And the flower’s fair face,
My joy I could hardly contain,
As I whistled the tune that nobody’s heard
And that no one will hear again.

Then the southern wind blew,
And with fingers so light
Deftly caught up the notes of my strain,
While I whistled the tune that nobody’s heard
And that no one will hear again.

Though that tune is now gone,
And the notes in my head
Have since flown and no longer remain,
I was whistling for joy, and so therefore, I think
That my music was not made in vain.

In Western Lands

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The final part of “The Tale of Kutava,” continued from Part V

Having set out from our native shores upon a long and difficult voyage, we survived as best we could.  None of us were mariners (although we had gained some experience paddling down the Mikaluf), so we knew only vaguely the course our craft was taking, and we did our best to steer westward.  I believe we all had doubts about our chances of arriving at the ancestral home of the Kroats, but we maintained a spirit of optimism throughout.  However, by the time we sighted land after many months of roving the seas, we were thoroughly disgusted with our standard diet of fish and gulls, our supplies having run out long before.
Thou canst imagine our joy when we first sighted a stone turret jutting out of the mists, revealing our almost alarming proximity to land.  Our leather boat had indeed brought us across the ocean Svôsivik with minimal repairs, and for this we were thankful, yet we thought only of solid ground and the benefits thereof as we paddled into a windless haven.

Disembarking, we secured the boat and examined our surroundings.

‘Troth, this is a dismal place!’ exclaimed Ferondei.  ‘It doth not look like our homeland.’

‘When sawest thou the homeland before?’ said Aiĝif.  ‘I’ll warrant thee that we are equally clueless in this respect.’ Read More

Zefelen

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In times past our fathers told
Great stories of serpents which fire breathed.
These dragons in caves dark would lie
Till roused by hunger, or want of sport.
Though by many forgotten, these “fairy tales”
Are echoes of ancient truth.
In days of yore the creatures were killed,
Thus here they are hardly seen.
Yet beyond the sea, across the sand,
There lies a land where dragons still dwell.
A fertile place the creatures found,
A lovely verdant land, and free
Of human population. However, a few men
Since discovered the spot, and now live there.
Should you ever venture thither, you shall find
A mountainous country, yet warm and kind.
The tongue of its people is understood by all
And the whole land is luscious green.
Yet do not expect to discover dragons,
For their very presence few may view.

Pluit Hodie

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The loud roar of the thunder breaks through the damp air,
And a train whistle sounds from the valley below.
Then the torrent returns; raindrops fall everywhere.
A great bolt splits the sky, and the hostile wind blows.

Since the weather is inclement, homeward we fly.
In the stove crackling flames keep us toasty and warm,
And our roof (though it leaks) keeps us perfectly dry.
What a wonderful day just to wait out a storm.

As I sit in the house staying out of the cold,
I look up at the shelf and discover a book.
The covers are dusty, the pages are old,
But the story within it is worth a good look.