Musings of a Nascent Poet

by Stephanie Barr

And could make Earth's magic rise.

  He'd strength to slay adversity,

  All mortals, who, unwise,

  Might think that they could kill the man

  With those glowing demon eyes.

  Those glowing, gleaming, savage orbs

  That glistened in the night,

  The eyes, with their hard scarlet stare,

  That shined with baseless light,

  Could yank the heart from any man

  And put his feet to flight;

  Rogues and heroes all alike

  Would flee from him in fright.

  With one glance at his crimson gaze,

  They'd lose all urge to fight.

  He had been called a demon

  From the moment he was born

  His mother died when he was birthed;

  'Twas from her body torn,

  But when his crimson eyes were seen,

  His relatives did mourn:

  "A demon born among us?"

  Then the baby was forsworn,

  The red-eyed babe abandoned,

  Left to brave the winter storm.

  So found the witch Hordubin,

  As she spied him in the snow,

  A babe with ice blue fingers

  Whose eyes like coals did glow,

  An innocent whose guileless eyes

  Had scared his family so

  That they had left him here to die—

  But she won't leave him. No.

  Like any babe, the infant boy

  Deserved a chance to grow.

  When people saw Hordubin

  With the baby she had saved,

  They said she had a demon

  Tucked away inside her cave.

  "The child there is a changeling,

  Just a red-eyed demon slave,

  Who learns of magic, black and dire,

  'Til human blood he'll crave,

  An evil creature spawned from Hell.

  You'll see. He'll be depraved."

  But they were wrong, and evil not,

  Though his face grew firm and set.

  Self-righteous men had killed his witch

  In hopes to kill her "pet",

  But quick he was and ran away,

  Escaped their iron net.

  He heard them as they killed her

  And he vowed a vengeful debt:

  They thought the child was evil . . .

  They hadn't seen him yet.

  The stripling grew, through parlous years,

  To most impressive size,

  And now men did have cause to fear

  And not just from his eyes,

  Whose ruby gaze seemed twice as hard

  And, worse, seemed twice as wise.

  But now his back is hugely broad

  And muscled were his thighs.

  See the way he swings his sword

  Or slim stiletto plies.

  His life is now vendetta

  Vengeance on the race of man,

  And there was not one challenge,

  Not one mortal brave to stand.

  The armies broke before him;

  From this Demon, heroes ran.

  And wisely, for he cut them down;

  Blood spilled into the sand.

  Run, armies, when you see him!

  You should fear that mighty hand.

  His heart held room for nothing

  But the memory of that night

  The night they killed that gentle witch

  For doing what was right.

  Now, they felt his magic,

  Felt his fury, felt his might.

  Let them find the promise in

  The blood-hued demon sight.

  They began the battle;

  Let them see how Demons fight.

  But vengeful hearts of granite

  Can respond to gentle hands—

  That dainty maid with stormy eyes,

  Her kiss a burning brand.

  He'd thought no thought but vengeance

  Could his heart e'er understand,

  But, oh, this woman moved him

  When she washed from wounds the sand

  And looked with love as, trustingly,

  She reached to take his hand.

  How could he think of vengeance

  When enamored with his bride?

  How could life be his enemy

  When she stood by his side?

  She was his heart's sweet solace,

  A balm for pain and pride,

  A haven from the world of hate,

  The world that he'd decried.

  She gave him love, acceptance,

  And conquered anger's tide.

  But men are never good with peace

  Or settling the score

  And, now, when he hurt no one,

  They wanted him the more.

  They claimed he was a coward

  Though he'd triumphed ere before.

  They vowed they'd hunt forever

  'Til they'd done their grisly chore

  And eyes that flamed a ruby red,

  At last, would glow no more.

  They ambushed him, as lone he rode,

  To catch him by surprise,

  But lost because the foremost ranks

  Were frightened by his eyes—

  Then dead or flown in terror

  At the fury of his cries.

  How furious the lightning bolt!

  How well the sword he plies!

  A soldier moved to kill him;

  For his arrogance, he dies.

  He felt the wind-spawned whisper

  Of the wife his heart adored,

  "My darling, I can't bear to think

  You injured, maimed or gored.

  At home is there still peace and love,

  So, please dear, sheathe your sword."

  So did he stop the slaughter;

  He obeyed as she implored

  And thundered to his castle

  As the men behind him roared.

  "Defeated!" the triumphant cry,

  "He thinks that he can flee.

  We don't think he's as mighty

  As he was hailed to be."

  They stood there, bruised and battered,

  With corpses to their knees,

  But often men see only

  What they really want to see.

  Convinced, and oh so wrongly,

  They took chase immediately.

  His treasure came to meet him,

  And he hastened to alight,

  But quickly she forestalled him

  As the army was in sight.

  "My love," she cried, "You freed them,

  Will they take no respite?

  I don't think that they'll ever stop;

  They'll make our life a blight.

  The time is past for pity, dear,

  If they want war, then fight!"

  'Twas then he went to battle

  Like the fearsome hurricane

  And men, in waves, were slaughtered

  Locked in death or mortal pain.

  Those soldiers, they had wanted blood;

  Blood flowed as they were slain.

  They fell as sword and halberd

  Cut through helmets, sliced through chain,

  Until he heard the quiet gasp,

  His soul-mate's cry of pain.

  An errant arrow pierced her side;

  And, in his arms, she dies.

  The Demon turns and now he looks

  With murder in his eyes,

  But murder will not bring her back;

  He turns again and sighs.

  The flaming gaze is drowned in tears.

  Another arrow flies.

  He holds her to his breast again.

  At last, the Demon dies.

  I love to play with imagery The next two poems fell out of a couple of my original fairy tales (that have never been published). Though, truthfully, I can't remember if I started with the poem and then wrote the fairy tale or vic
e versa.

  Spell-Singer

  Through the huge cathedral

  Of a sky of bird's egg blue

  And over primal forest lands

  Deep emerald in hue,

  And echoing through mountain crags

  That sharply scratch the sky,

  The song, that sweet heart-wrenching song,

  That spell-spawned song does fly.

  The song, it pleads and sobs and weeps

  And calls in magic's prayer

  But no one comes to answer it

  For there is no one there.

  The soft song drifts o'er mile and mile,

  Pushed forth on magic's wings,

  But there is nothing there to feed

  The hope of she that sings.

  She stands there, draped in sapphire silk

  And sunshine-gilded hair,

  And sings a witch-maid's crystal song

  To one who isn't there.

  Atop her clouded glassy tower,

  There stands her crystal hall,

  And, there, she sings her witch's song,

  Her never heeded call . . .

  The last note soars above the trees,

  The last sad hopeful cry.

  She listens as it echoes back

  But still hears no reply.

  She turns to go inside again

  So many times, "again"

  To wait, alone, 'til morrow

  When she'll sing her sad refrain . . .

  Again . . .

  Lone Star

  Lone star! Lone star!

  Alone, she rules the night.

  In her own milky way,

  No other shines so bright.

  Like no other star,

  You see her night and noon,

  That cool lonely star—

  They call this queen the moon.

  Lone wolf! Lone wolf!

  Whose restless love affair,

  A thousand years old

  With a strength none can compare,

  But doomed to be naught,

  For, though she fills his eyes,

  She sails high above,

  The monarch of night skies.

  Lone star! Queen moon!

  With suitors far below.

  She dreams of a love

  She knows she cannot know,

  But her dreams foster love

  In those whose love can be.

  They sigh like the moon,

  Then fulfill her silent plea.

  Lone star! Lone wolf!

  Queen moon must live alone

  While her lover lives on

  And sings with tragic tone.

  She's alone. She's unique.

  She loves so fervently.

  The queen of the night,

  She dreams of what can't be.

  Sing on, lone wolf!

  Your love wears diamond chains.

  She touches you not

  But hears your sad refrain.

  She knows of your heart

  But keeps her velvet throne

  For none knows as she

  That she must remain . . . alone.

  She's the star of a short story ("Cauchemar") as well.

  Night Changer

  She angles through the evening breeze,

  Then glides up through the night,

  And gazes with her crystal eyes

  From her majestic height.

  Espying prey from far away,

  She starts her wingéd stalk.

  She strikes! She kills! The victor thrills!

  Tonight, she is the hawk.

  Creeping through the underbrush,

  In silence, on the prowl,

  Until she spies her victim

  And then whispers out a growl.

  The prey retreats on frightened feet,

  But it will be her prize.

  Beware her might because tonight

  She looks through panther eyes.

  Moonlight glows along her pelt,

  All silver in the night,

  But, though it gleams, it cannot match

  Her eyes of emerald light.

  The scent is near. She smells its fear

  And hastens toward the smell.

  A scream of fright! A streak of light

  This vixen spawned of Hell.

  The starlight turns her mane alight

  In rainbow fairy strands

  And lights her coat of milky white

  Ne'er touched by human hands.

  The verdant eyes . . . the terrored cries

  And bloodied grows her horn.

  A striking sight for she's tonight

  The vengeful unicorn.

  Her moss-green eyes are bright with hate.

  A maid, today, she stands

  Who wreaks her vengeance every night

  On men who slew her man.

  She haunts her prey by night—not day

  For mankind must atone.

  Her eyes alight, with tears are bright

  As she waits again—alone.

  I'm quite fond of Oriental history and literature, legends and myths. Here's my attempt to emulate it.

  Jade

  "Princess, Princess, won't you deign

  To give this fool a smile?

  Or let your ladies hear the laugh

  We've not heard for a while?

  My jokes and tricks don't charm you

  And your eyes are always sad,

  But, Princess, why should you feel tears?

  Just look at all you've had.

  The King proclaimed you perfect,

  You his favorite courtesan,

  And promised you to prince the one

  You chose to give your hand.

  You gave that hand to no one,

  Seemed to shun a thousand beau

  And left the world for the Emperor's hall

  So love you'd never know.

  Is it vanished youth that ails you?

  Do you hate your hair of white?

  Detest those weary wrinkles

  And eyes no longer bright?"

  "You claim you are a minstrel—

  Let us hear no more of me,

  Just sing a song to break a heart

  Though stone is what mine be."

  "But, Princess, why not sunshine?

  Why not sing of youthful joy

  Or let me jump and dance for you

  And be your royal toy?"

  "Sing, fool," she said, then whispered,

  "Of some debt that can't be paid. . . "

  So the minstrel shrugged and sang aloud,

  "This song is 'Perfect Jade'."

  "A Chinese princess, a Chinese doll,

  A Chinese courtesan in a golden hall,

  Favorite of the Emperor, the Emperor's favorite maid,

  Favorite in the world of men who called her 'Perfect Jade'.

  Many men had died for her, were slaughtered in her name;

  Many tried to win her heart but she treated all the same.

  Why should she favor other men when favored by the king?

  Or yearn the gifts of lesser men when she wore the Emperor's ring?"

  But hearts that hide for many years can often blossom late,

  And this maid, heartless, loveless maid, beheld true love her fate.

  And did she love some handsome prince, a rich beau of the court?

  Did she yearn a wealthy lord famed for his skill in sport?

  No, 'twas not that sort of man who breached her frozen soul

  But a Buddhist priest of lowly birth that took her self-control.

  A fighting priest with magic skills yet taught of peaceful ways

  Was he that set her heart on fire and set her soul ablaze.

  This Buddhist priest, he loved her too; he cared not for her past,

  Did not believe the tales or all the gossip that was cast .

  Days with her were full with bliss, with joy, with passioned song,

  And priest and princess though they were,
they knew it wasn't wrong.

  The Princess gave her loving priest a gift of priceless jade

  And claimed it was her very heart that captive he had made.

  For love she did to such extent, her suitors, far from blind,

  They left her to this lowly love, and looked elsewhere, resigned.

  But a wicked lord was not resigned and yearned her perfect shape

  And stole this girl called Perfect Jade and took her home to rape.

  But she had faith in her priestly love and held the lord at bay.

  She knew her love would take her back if there were any way.

  And yet, there was no sign of him as the sumptuous feast was spread

  Until a man in priestly robes appeared on silent tread.

  'That girl you hold against her will!' His voice rang in the air.

  'My Jade who cares for me alone imprison if you dare!'

  'She doesn't care for you, priest-boy,' the lord said with a smile,

  'She only thought you'd be a novel subject for her wiles.

  Still, you can prove the strength of your one-sided devotion

  And which of us survives can have the "Jade Without Emotion."'

  The priest, he did not want to fight, but Jade he must defend

  And fought with skill unrivalled 'til the fight came to an end.

  The lord lay on the marble floor, his body crushed and beaten

  But thought, that with some bitter words, his own death he would sweeten.

  'She'll only eat you up, priest-boy, her love is all her own,

  For underneath that silky skin, there beats a heart of stone.

  Believe that when you've killed me, she will leave you for a king—

  That piece of priceless jade she gave is for remembering!"

  The priest despised this man though Buddha's word said not to kill,

  So spared the priest this evil man who words were bitter pills.

  With strength, he kept his hands from doing what they longed to do

  And turned to comfort Jade who'd felt the brunt of words untrue.

  'Do you not care for me?' she cried. 'That filth deserves to die!

  I want to see him writhe in pain for every putrid lie!'

  'I wish that I could kill him; I, too, wish him to atone

  But Buddha says we cannot take a life that's not our own.'

  She froze, her face away from him, her body a stiff mold,

  Then turned again to face him, but her pale face was so cold.

  She spoke, her eyes an icy glare, 'He's right. I do not care.

  Me? Spoil my life with paltry priest when I'm so young and fair?

  'I see I waste my time with you. Can you not understand?

  My life is dreams of gold and jewels, not just some mortal man.

  My choice in you is flawed it seems; tis time past that we parted.'

  Confused and hurt, her love withdrew, dew-eyed and broken-hearted.

  And, as he left, his fingers flew. Her gift fell to the floor.

  He whispered, 'Jade, I love you still,' then shuffled out the door.

  As orange robes whisked out of sight, she flew to fallen jade—