NaPo poem #25, sonnet 26 of my Irish Epic:
26. The Palace Siege
The company of sidhe and mortal ward
set out at once to meet the Connacht fey:
with spear and shield, with axe and sling and sword,
they travelled into vale and over brae.
Their chariots were sixty strong at least,
and faery glamour caught the evening’s hues
when autumn’s moon ascended in the east
and Connacht’s faery palace came to view.
The company of warriors reached the walls
before the Prince could mount a fair defense,
and from below he heard the Dagda’s call
as arrows flew and torches kindled hence.
Though Connacht’s prince was sure to lose the night,
his pride ensured his foes would get their fight.
fae
The Brewing Storm
#23 for NaPo2021, sonnet 25 of my Irish Epic:
25. The Brewing Storm
For three long years, the passions of the world
had brewed without the guarantee that love
would check its other half, and so unfurled
the fronds of rage when push had come to shove.
The Dagda sought to form his fae brigade
into their ranks of combat, swift and sure,
while Munster’s king continued to persuade
the mortals that their cause must be secure:
Without the blessing, honest or coerced,
of Connacht’s ruling fae to win her hand,
this curse of Caer’s would yet reveal its worst
in faery realm or humble mortal land.
Though doubt had plagued the mortals in distress,
they swore their oaths of battle nonetheless.
The Turning of the Tides
#18 for NaPoWriMo 2021, Sonnet 24 of my ongoing draft of an Irish Epic (read the rest here):
24. The Turning of the Tides
When couriers of King and Queen returned,
the anxious hall stood quickly from their seats
to learn that their proposal had been spurned
by Connacht’s prince, in probable conceit.
He’d said his daughter’s hand is undeserved
by anyone unwilling to engage
their dreamings and the goddess whom they serve,
that strength must shine if worthiness be gauged.
The Dagda’s temper flared at this affront;
The Scarlet King agreed and urged, at length,
to rectify these words, and so confront
the Connacht Prince with such a show of strength.
And so the mortals’ hall, so glad before,
had turned to weighty words and plans of war.
The Rising Tension
#16 for NaPo, #23 for my ongoing Epic (read the preceding 22 sonnets here):
23. The Rising Tension
Though fae and mortal kept their front of mirth
with wine and food and song to pass the time,
the castle’s mood turned often to the dearth
of laughter as their worries ruled their minds:
the mortal’s sighs betrayed no confidence
in winning Connacht’s fae to their appeal,
nor did the Dagda hide his own pretense
of allyship in such a doubtful deal.
But chief among the melancholy lot
was Angus, who had sealed himself away
to dodge, by night, the temptress of his thoughts
and sleep by every hour of the day.
So love remained adrift in nonchalance
as host and hall awaited their response.
The Mortals’ Dilemma
It’s been a year, but I’m finally getting back to the continuation of my Irish Epic; if you haven’t kept up with this one, I recommend reading the preceding parts of the ongoing poem and the details of its inception on my new page The Epic of Angus and Caer.
To be perfectly confusing, here’s poem number 13 for this month, which is sonnet # 22 of the Epic:
22. The Mortals’ Dilemma
The King and Queen exchanged a furtive glance
when asked about their rulership of fae,
for though their might ensured a fighting chance,
the faery realm opposed their pull and sway.
The King replied in firm but kindly words:
“While, in our world, we boast seniority
o’er men and commerce, field and lake and herd,
in fae domains, we’ve no authority.”
Upon the Dagda’s wail and anguished wince,
the Queen was quick amending their reply:
“But neither are we hostile to the Prince:
our messengers will find him, ere we try.”
And so they sent their agents to the hall
of Connacht’s Prince, to bid him heed their call.
The Appeal
While this is officially my 30th and qualifying poem of NaPoWriMo, it is far from the last in this ongoing epic of Irish mythology. If you’ve enjoyed my narrative so far, please stay tuned for the continuation of this project! I wager we’re only about halfway through… so with that, sonnet #21:
- The Appeal
Enlivened were the King and Queen to see
the face of fae among their roaming kin,
for days of grief outweighed their days of glee
since Angus and his song of love grew thin.
If faery feasts were liberal in their spread,
this mortal banquet proved more lavish still:
a week had passed in wine and meat and bread
before the delegation spoke their will:
the Dagda told the rulers of their plight,
of how his son’s distress had been evinced
by want of Caer, the goddess in the night,
the daughter of a Connacht faery prince.
He asked them, by their grace and ruling hand,
to bend the Father-Prince to their command.
The Question of Mortals
Poem 29 — second-to-last of the month! — via sonnet 20 of the Irish mythological epic. While I’m not totally satisfied with this one (regarding both structure and placement in the tale), I am excited to have written 280 lines in this epic poem — with many more to come! There will always be time to edit later.
- The Question of Mortals
With haste, the Dagda and the Scarlet King
assembled guards and servants of their clans
to march with them through wood and faery ring
to seek their equals in the realm of Man.
Though weighty was the power of their kind,
and binding was the impact of their oaths,
the mortals of the era had refined
some artistry and magic of their own:
when men and gods competed for their fates,
such wise defense was often paramount,
but allies with such might and magic great
could join the fae and strengthen their account.
To Connacht, then, the small assembly rode
to seek the mortal hosts at their abode.
The Royal Counsel
27th poem for April, 19th in the Irish epic:
- The Royal Counsel
At Munster’s keep, the Scarlet King convened
a meeting of the Dagda and their train
to help decide the method and the means
of winning Caer to Angus’s campaign.
He spoke at length of Connacht, where he knew
the father of the maiden claimed his land:
King Ethal and his faerie retinue
could grant the Lord his daughter’s artful hand.
But mortal country lay between their reach,
administered by monarchs of its own,
and so the court of fae must then beseech
the worldly King and Queen before their throne.
And so the faerie’s plans were thusly laid
to seek the mortal rulers and their aid.
The Rising Doubt
25th poem of the month, #18 of the sonnet-epic:
- The Rising Doubt
As Caer and her companions sang their tune,
the Scarlet King and Angus stayed discreet;
the Lord of Love again began to swoon
and wondered were it wise that they still meet:
“Her power goes beyond her dreaming spells,
and far beyond the talent of my art.
And even as my aching for her swells,
I’ve not the strength to carry off her heart.”
“My boy,” the Scarlet King replied in turn,
“A chance this ripe is seldom so at hand!
And yet, there is some truth in your concern…
So let us ride, and craft another plan.”
With hope, the king returned them through the night,
but Angus felt the waning of his might.
The Lake of the Dragon’s Mouth
Went from a couple days ahead to a day behind schedule, but here’s NaPo poem #24, sonnet 17 of the ongoing mythical saga:
- The Lake of the Dragon’s Mouth
Beyond the Munster borders by a day
and into dusk, beneath the setting sun,
the company arrived by winding way
before the shining lake where dreams were spun:
the Dragon’s Mouth seemed wreathed in golden fire
as rays of sunlight danced upon the pool
to stir imagination — and desire
of guarded treasure, whether flesh or jewel.
As darkness came, a humming soon was heard:
the voice of many maidens on the sands
flew proud across the lake, like singing birds
to rival any call of beast or man.
Above them all, a voice as pure and clear
as moonlight bore the melody of Caer.
Disclaimer: I have no idea how far it is from Munster to Connacht, nor whether the borders of those ancient provinces (nations? principalities?) reflect the modern counties — NOR do I have a healthy grasp of the methods of travel available, so my assumption that the journey takes about a day could be phenomenally inaccurate. But hey, it’s a myth, right? There’s margin for error in the supernatural.
rhythm's nest 