The June Submission For Blackbird
The June Submission for Blackbird
So much has been going on lately! New stamps, new cards, new writing. Etcetera Etcetera.
For my June submission to the magazine Blackbird, I decided to write a poem in ballad-form, based on a mixture between Norse Mythology and Scandinavian/Christian folklore.
"Out was Ask upon a Day
And Embla did the washing
Out hung linens fresh and sweet
Yet her children needed washing.
"Out was Odin on the Day
And through the forest riding
And with him Hoenir and Lodur
Upon that Day a riding.
"Fast they came to Embla's house
And went they to her knocking
Inside did Embla wash her babes
When her lords they came a knocking.
"Pleased she was upon that day
For half her babes were drying
But shamed was she upon that day
For half her brood was filthy.
"Beneath the floor she hid her brood
The ones still needing washing
And came back Embla to her door
To answer them a knocking.
"In came they as she bidded them
And they began a talking
Of earthen songs and goings on
And babes in cradles rocking.
"Wholesome kin you have my dear
Said Odin while a talking
Yes, my lone said Embla dear
Whilst they four were talking.
"But Odin knew this false to be
For he was one All-Seeing
And spied he more of Embla's brood
Down below unseeing.
"There they are and there they stay!
Said the three lords shouting
To us you lied our Embla dear
Upon your husband's outing.
"So from the babes below did
Hoenir take their feeling
And Lodur paled their rosy cheeks
And Odin hushed their breathing.
"So man-folk here above belong
In the daylight shining
And elf-folk Embla left for shame
In shadows dark and pining."
(One note: this is my original work. You can share this, but if you do so, please cite me and this cite as a reference! This was written by myself, Benjamin Spick, in May of 2012)
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*finger guns into your ask box*
👉👉 (i almost never see asks! send me messages instead 😅😧)
"The Lay of St. Kenelm"
Once again, another submission to the local college magazine Blackbird fro the July edition. This particular poem is based on the legend of St. Kenelm, an Anglo-Saxon prince who ascended the throne at the age of seven upon his father's death. He was quickly martyred/assassinated by his jealous sister Cwendred, who asked her lover to carry out the dirty work.
"Once a good King past to Death
Cynewulf by name
And left he but a stripling heir
Young Cynehelm by name.
"Had Cynehelm two sisters great
Yet scarcely 'like, the twain
Burgenhild' a maiden loyal
And Cwendred, woman vain.
"To slay her kith and gain the crown
Was Cwendred's only want
And so she bid her lover dear
To do a task so gaunt.
"Slay the child for me, my love
Cooed Cwendred to her man
Finish him with scarce a word
And take his life in hand.
"So Ascbert went a' riding then
With Cynehelm one day
Hunting in the forest deep
For a prince to slay.
"Stopped they for a brief respite
For Cynehelm to rest
And up behind did Ascbert come
At his dame's behest.
"But Cynehelm spake Nay my lord
You shall not slay me here
Yet take this rod and plant it there
And bid my end come near.
"So planted he a rod of thorn
And sprung from it an Ash
Then 'neath that tree did Ascbert strike
And Cyn'helm breathed his last.
"But from the grave his Soul did fly
In likeness of a dove,
- As prophecy foretold by dream -
Beyond the boughs above."
Again, you may re-post or share this this as you like, but please remember to cite my name (Benjamin Spick) and the name of my blog (tiedinknotsart) as your source! This is my original work and is very important to me. Don't steal it!
Jude and Ewan in bath, 2003 - Ph. Lorenzo Agius
You're cute. That's all
Hey thank you! I just now saw this haha
If tonight the moon should arrive like a lost guide crossing the fields with a bitter lantern in her hand,
her irides blind, her dresses wild, lie down and listen to her find you; lie down and listen to the body become
the promise of no other, the sleeper in the garden in its own arms, the exile in its own autumnal house.
You have woken. But no one has woken. You are changed, but the light of change is bitter, the changing
is the threshold into winter. Traveler, rememberer, sleeper, tonight, as you slumber where the dead are, if the moon’s hands
should discover you through fire, lie down and listen to her hold you, the moon who has been away
so long now, the lost moon with her silver lips and whisper, her body half in winter,
half in wool. Look at her, look at her, that drifter. And if no one, if nothing comes to know you, if no song
comes to prove it isn’t over, tell yourself, in the moon’s arms, she is no one; tell yourself, as you lose
love, it is after, that you alone are the bearer in that changed place, you alone who have woken, and have
opened, you alone who can so love what you are now and the vanishing that carries it away.
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