An Archers' Poem
Apr 30, 2007 20:38:13 GMT
Post by Deleted on Apr 30, 2007 20:38:13 GMT
Here is a poem for the archers amongst us that I wrote a while back. It is fixing to be published in an upcoming "Primitive Archer" magazine. I thought y'all'd get a kick out of it:
----------------------------------
BOWSTRING’S TWANG AND HISS OF ARROW!
The Unsung Archer; By David Middleton Edelen II
Strutting rough hewn planks of tavern, deck on the main, or forest loam,
the Minstrels sing, amidst jacks of ale and flecks of foam,
of shining bugles and deadly hordes, flashing swords and spears of gore.
Of valor and courage, heroes of a thousand years and lore.
Sing they, of soldiers grim and the knight glorious in battle lock!
Forget thee, thou men of prose, when your lives were saved by caress of knock?
For archers, pure of heart and aim, pierced the hearts of enemies, with fear their marrow.
For of heroes’ music, none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
From a thousand fields, sing cowards and heroes,
of glory, plunder, and the battle’s gore and agony’s throes.
While in embraces warm, amidst parlors sweet where cowards brag,
They sing of fields from whence they fled, or to the field which no price could drag.
But sing ye not of the archer, his destroyed host or halted charge, or filled mound,
who with little respect from hero or coward, stood their ground.
The bowmen understand, and blame ye not, ye minstrel with the heart of a sparrow.
For of heroes’ music, none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
Sing ye Minstrels, of generals who lead, but forget the men who fight,
of scarves and banners, lines of battle, but forget the archers who loosed the flight,
Who oft times, fletch frayed and point gory through shaft-darkened sky, won the day.
So of others thou sing, and the cymbals clash and the harps play.
So of knights and footmen sing, but of the stalwart archer we sang.
For while your lives in the balance hung, saved by the hiss of arrow and twang,
whose sweet music laid, thy enemies in furrow and barrow.
For of heroes’ music none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
Whilst bright lights, pomp and pageantry surrounds king and knight,
they laugh as dismal fields, thatched huts, or a soggy camp be the archers' plight.
Amongst walls of castle and light bright, his arms worked by others, a knight doth sloth as wine or Champaign he sippeth.
But by feeble light of candles, faint and flickering, an archer works his twine and string while tea or jack of ale he tippeth.
Amidst glittering halls and lighted pavilions, the chivalrous and the sophist sing of valor of old,
but forgotten under thatched roofs or lonely tents the archers sing, with stroke and caress of bow.
For knoweth we, with neither heavy helm, armor nor shield have we, if overrun for many an archer tis that lonely barrow.
But of hero’s music none is sweeter than bowstring's twang or hiss of arrow!
With sun on shield and sparkle of spear the horde advances and comes death’s realm.
Armor shining, with arc of sword, meet foes with crack of buckler and dent of helm.
Horsehair plumes and crimson sashes, armor and ribbons sullied in gory mud,
spark of swords as axes cleave, souls flee and banners be splashed with blood.
To flank or rearward atop a knoll, cowards say some, do the archers stand,
Hearts thumping, eyes searching, their bows at the ready and arrow in hand.
For in battle’s heat when hangs the balance error’s margin be narrow.
For of hero’s music none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
The line cracks, spears sheathed in bodies, swords and axes dripping, the horde advances.
But all note the archers, ever vigil, as our footmen waiver, fastly holding their stances.
The signal is up, archers hark! The arm is lifted and with stroke of bow and string,
the sky is darkened as the archers loose, and death is on the wing.
Fair bristling with arrows amidst crimson spray falters the horde,
Knight and footmen rally, the line is held amidst such loss as we could barely afford.
To the archers’ ears there came a song, and lo, from amidst the dead, crimsoned Arms high, turned they; our hoste, with lifted voice sang Footmen, Knight, King, and Harold;
Hail archers; For of hero’s music none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
----------------------------------
BOWSTRING’S TWANG AND HISS OF ARROW!
The Unsung Archer; By David Middleton Edelen II
Strutting rough hewn planks of tavern, deck on the main, or forest loam,
the Minstrels sing, amidst jacks of ale and flecks of foam,
of shining bugles and deadly hordes, flashing swords and spears of gore.
Of valor and courage, heroes of a thousand years and lore.
Sing they, of soldiers grim and the knight glorious in battle lock!
Forget thee, thou men of prose, when your lives were saved by caress of knock?
For archers, pure of heart and aim, pierced the hearts of enemies, with fear their marrow.
For of heroes’ music, none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
From a thousand fields, sing cowards and heroes,
of glory, plunder, and the battle’s gore and agony’s throes.
While in embraces warm, amidst parlors sweet where cowards brag,
They sing of fields from whence they fled, or to the field which no price could drag.
But sing ye not of the archer, his destroyed host or halted charge, or filled mound,
who with little respect from hero or coward, stood their ground.
The bowmen understand, and blame ye not, ye minstrel with the heart of a sparrow.
For of heroes’ music, none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
Sing ye Minstrels, of generals who lead, but forget the men who fight,
of scarves and banners, lines of battle, but forget the archers who loosed the flight,
Who oft times, fletch frayed and point gory through shaft-darkened sky, won the day.
So of others thou sing, and the cymbals clash and the harps play.
So of knights and footmen sing, but of the stalwart archer we sang.
For while your lives in the balance hung, saved by the hiss of arrow and twang,
whose sweet music laid, thy enemies in furrow and barrow.
For of heroes’ music none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
Whilst bright lights, pomp and pageantry surrounds king and knight,
they laugh as dismal fields, thatched huts, or a soggy camp be the archers' plight.
Amongst walls of castle and light bright, his arms worked by others, a knight doth sloth as wine or Champaign he sippeth.
But by feeble light of candles, faint and flickering, an archer works his twine and string while tea or jack of ale he tippeth.
Amidst glittering halls and lighted pavilions, the chivalrous and the sophist sing of valor of old,
but forgotten under thatched roofs or lonely tents the archers sing, with stroke and caress of bow.
For knoweth we, with neither heavy helm, armor nor shield have we, if overrun for many an archer tis that lonely barrow.
But of hero’s music none is sweeter than bowstring's twang or hiss of arrow!
With sun on shield and sparkle of spear the horde advances and comes death’s realm.
Armor shining, with arc of sword, meet foes with crack of buckler and dent of helm.
Horsehair plumes and crimson sashes, armor and ribbons sullied in gory mud,
spark of swords as axes cleave, souls flee and banners be splashed with blood.
To flank or rearward atop a knoll, cowards say some, do the archers stand,
Hearts thumping, eyes searching, their bows at the ready and arrow in hand.
For in battle’s heat when hangs the balance error’s margin be narrow.
For of hero’s music none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!
The line cracks, spears sheathed in bodies, swords and axes dripping, the horde advances.
But all note the archers, ever vigil, as our footmen waiver, fastly holding their stances.
The signal is up, archers hark! The arm is lifted and with stroke of bow and string,
the sky is darkened as the archers loose, and death is on the wing.
Fair bristling with arrows amidst crimson spray falters the horde,
Knight and footmen rally, the line is held amidst such loss as we could barely afford.
To the archers’ ears there came a song, and lo, from amidst the dead, crimsoned Arms high, turned they; our hoste, with lifted voice sang Footmen, Knight, King, and Harold;
Hail archers; For of hero’s music none is sweeter than bowstring’s twang and hiss of arrow!