Poetry & Song

'Clavicus Fincher'

Clavicus Fincher was always a pincher—an insistent skin twister, a habit persister.
Foes or friends were just means to his ends—every way which, just places to pinch.
A cry, a yelp, pleas for mercy or help—he listened not-ever, with fingers flesh-tethered.
All about town, people moaned and growled—young Clavicus they cursed, while his handiwork they nursed.
Then one night dark, came a creature so stark—his face obscured, and his skin made of bark.
In him Fincher saw, a challenge, and awe—relief with little purchase would be his final hurrah!
But anywhere he tried, Fincher just could not pry—his squeezers denied; his appetite dry.
The thing stood bewildered as young Clavicus gasped—and the gathered folk laughed, at the boy with no grasp.
Then to their lament, came this thing's true intent—he snatched up poor Clavicus, and away from them they went.
"Naughty wee children," the beast then roared,"should keep hands to themselves, save for helping with chores."
"Hands are for flossing, and brushing, and washing.Raised only in question, and for nary aggression."
"Take this lesson hence, all you kiddies and tots,Or soon, you too, I'll bring out to The Rot."

from Antüran humourist Ulana Moone's 'Tales of the Old Wood' series

'Abyss' (reader submission from H. Gorrano)

I wonder, I wonder,by stars' faded light,where you lay your head this night.
Do feathers, and cloth—silks, linen and thread—hold more tender, than were I with thee, abed?
It brings blue feelingto know all I can gleanof being with you is found in-dream.
By what misfortunedoes my heart beseechthat which lies so out of reach.
Yet I'm afeared to losenot what I have not,but the longing that drives me to such thought.
For what, then,would I be, if not this:Wind-tossed chaser of beauty, and bliss.
Ever-wanting,ever-seeking,through wondrous abyss.

from Edonian poet Gorne Kellam's debut collection, 'Meditations of Strife'

'The Words Unheard'

Words foreboding pass, like wind, un-felt by the castled and clothed.
The gust's chill, mistaken for arousal;the poor, to war, are betrothed.
Interred be they who know it best,their protests trapped in place of rest.
The march begins, the cycle spins—our nature, emergent, attests:
Fruitful morns and raucous eves,borne of peace,but stories borne of violence.
In place of warning words, ceased,descends a deafening silence.
Winds awash with bitter disdain—a gale of hate, without respite.
Rivers of blood water the graves—bloom to woe and encroaching blight.

from Edonian poet Gorne Kellam's debut collection, 'Meditations on Strife'

'Red Coffers' or 'The Night The Dark Came to Westmark'

“Go now, my son,” he said,“The ci-ty is to bed,we shan’t let this chance go by!”
Glinting co-llection,Shining re-flection,Danced like fires in his eyes.
A midnight bur-glary,This thie-very sortie,To abate his yearn for coin.
“But father!” I’d pro-test,“Be they not inn-ocent?"These words of caution were denied.

Rooftop to rooftop,Slick from the raindrop,Bounding out in-to the night.
Knives at the rea-dy,Should it turn de-adly,Plights for Peace they shan’t abide.
“Look, there, my boy,” he beamed,“The watchmen are in-dream,the noble’s keep left open wide!”
“But father!” I did warn,“Their armour’s all been torn,some great evil waits inside!”

With that, we took to flight,Went streaking through the night,Qui-et like wraiths and holding fast!
But what we saw beyond,Would see the brave abscond-Ter-ror himself would be aghast!
A haunting vi-sage,Dark-clad and vi-cious,Some Strange vil-lain from the black!
My sight then failed me,My soul turned empty, It reared back and then attacked!
And so now in its wake,I lie dead but-awake,Cursed to walk these hollow halls…
Plund’rers and robber-men,Come and come again,The Dark, smiling, takes them all.
Though you may roll your-eyes,Sni-cker and cri-ticize,Take my words as they’re read.
Run now and far-away,Thieve then another day,Lest you haunt these Coffers Red…

from Irreghani bard Jacen Hillcrest, performing at The Winded Willow Tavern in Ellesbrook.

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