Seeking Love—a Poem

Previously, I wrote on all of my goings on thus far—including my progress on the Ark, and more thoughts on Jeremy Corbyn. I was planning on writing, today, about that contentious political figure; however, I have decided to postpone this momentarily for something else: a poem.

I wrote Seeking Love (as it is now named) as part of my efforts in the Ark. I thought it quite fitting, you see—’tis only too close to my protagonists’ hearts. Nevertheless, its length compels me to at least consider shortening it, or including only an extract in the actual novel.

As for the poem itself: firstly, please do read it.

Now, I’ll not beat around the bush here. This poem is a little unusual, like some of my works are. For one, it is both a romantic poem and a poem set in Norse mythology; it’s a rare combination. Even so, reading it one may discern why I ended up doing it the way I did:

And so they set sail.
Many lands, they sought;
Great storms, wrought of bright thunder and fury
Did not keep them from Nordrland.

There, they sought women.
Tall, and strong, and blonde; beautiful, perhaps
To some; but not to them.
And so they called good cheer, and left.

Throughout the poem we see this; I am talking about… a peculiar phantasmagoria—the ‘great storms, wrought of bright thunder and fury’, for example, are evocative of the atmosphere that characterises the Norse tales.

There’s also a certain aptness when you combine such writing with:

‘But,’ says Jörg, ‘at least we’ve found—
‘A kinship; a warm strength to draw on
‘A desire met and quenched;
‘A soft word spoken in the night.’

Besides these literary technicalities, there’s the obvious: Seeking Love is not only a poem about love, but about two men. In the likely event that you have noticed the fact that they seek women, but end up together, allow me to allay any speculation: no, the poem is not making any assertions about sexuality. That’s not the point.

The point is rather more simple: it’s about looking long, and hard, for that which can never be sought. When, really, you should be looking rather closer to home...

Poem: The Lady and the Dragon

The interlude has been long. A week ago, I wrote on the Ark; there I discussed the direction of the plot, matters of writing, and other such literary deliberations. I also presented a new chapter, the last to be made public before the date of publication.

Alas, I have done little in the way of the Ark hence. The cause may be attributed to a case of the flu—an unpleasant virus it is, easily capable of sapping energy from even the most lively of souls.

But another cause lies with the topic of this particular post. I have completed an epic poem entitled the Lady and the Dragon; and I do not speak of it as an ‘epic’ lightly. It is over two thousand words and nearly five hundred stanzas in length; it is, to put it simply, pretty damn big.

Why, you ask? To answer that particular question, one need look at what this poem actually is: a story. A fairytale, even. It describes the journey of the Lady Stella, and her faithful companion, Orem the Dragon. It is in many ways the archetypal novel: an antagonist—or rather, a multitude of them: the Golden Prince and the Keeper being the most notable—contrives to wreak some evil, or are presently in some state of evil. The protagonists attempt to survive, but also to truimph.

For the Lady Stella and the Dragon Orm do indeed truimph. At no small cost to themselves, alas—such is the workings of any good tale—but triumph they do.

Before I present my analysis—why not take a look?

Read the Lady and the Dragon

Analysis

Here I shall refrain from providing an in-depth analysis; for to do so would require many words, and more time than I’ve permitted—curse this illness of mine. Instead, I will draw attention to (and provide clarification for) the most pertinent aspects of this work.

Chiefly among these is the evident metaphorical aspect to this fairytale. The Lady Stella is a woman, and a kind, tenacious one at that; but she is also a symbol of the oppressed. And who would be the oppressor, you ask? Well: that would be not the Dragon (hardly; and it would be terribly cliché) but the Golden Prince.

He—along with the real mastermind behind the plan, the Keeper—represents the patriarchy. The latter is not some crash caricature invented by certain contemporary self-proclaimed feminists (who indeed are professional offence-takers, not fighters for freedom) but rather: it is the truth. Behind it, there lies a callous king; a desire for power and sex, no matter how it be given; and most of all: an enduring disregard for human life and human suffering.

The patriarchy has subtler, more insidious forms too. Take one such:

‘You are no man, but a shadow;
‘A creature of ghastly evils done
‘Of dark words said by men to boys
‘And evil to good.’

Now, this being a mere poem, it does not concern itself with analysing the many and varied forms of patriarchy, the causes, the expression, et cetera et cetera. No: this poem serves merely to give an insight. Patriarchy can be insidious; it can embed itself deep into the minds of children (male and female alike) in a manner not dissimilar to a genetic disease.

There are other metaphorical plays; indeed it may be argued that the poem itself is actually one giant metaphor. In the beginning, Stella is imprisoned within a castle:

Forged of men’s cruel intent
Built of crude granite; its windows barred
Its walls high, and its gate impenetrable,
The castle secures the Rebellious One
Oh so very well.

The castle may best be surmised with the words: ‘Know thy place.’ If you are imprisoned within its confines, you are in effect trapped from interacting meaningfully with the world; from political discourse, ownership of the means of production, and from any meaningful kind of self-agency. Yes, Stella has some limited control over her body in her choice of fashion, for example; but being imprisoned, she is unable to, say, ride a horse.

The topic most pertinent, however, is not the castle but the Dragon. Who is he? We learn that his name is Orem, and that he once betrayed the Ways:

I am Orem, the Great Dragon;
‘I betrayed those evil Ways
‘And neither Keeper, nor King
‘Nor the many men of savage armies
‘Could break my vigil.
‘I cannot control, but I cannot be defeated.’

Beyond this, I shan’t say too much. He is certainly loyal to Stella—even as a dragon, free to roam the world, and immune from near all human depredation, he yet holds fast. He protects her from many a dark scheme and insidious plot, despite having no such obligation. On a personal level, he is a hero; a man willing to stand in her defence, no matter the cost.

On another level, he is perhaps indicative of some societal force. Not all men are power hungry patriarchs; and though many may be deceived by the patriarchies’ lies and corrupting words, few willingly choose to subvert women for personal gain or sheer sadistry. Orem may be that man who treats his wife well, despite whatever others may think or do; Orem is he who stands for the defence of the innocent, no matter the price.

Let us conclude by addressing one more important thing: their success. Somehow, Stella and Orem do defeat the Keeper and his acolytes. How? The cause is two-fold. Firstly, Stella fights. At times, her fight may seem futile; but it is her defiance that ultimately destroys the Keeper’s insidious powers.

And it is also Orem, the Dragon, that kills these purveyors of evil. Take from that what you will.

Poem: The Darklands (Fallen Saga #6)

‘Alex!’ you say; ‘have you not promised us poetry, so long ago? Instead you give us the Machinations of a Writer!’

And you would be correct. But allow me to rectify this: in addition to my musings on the Ark, I am now armed with with a new addition to the increasingly substantial Fallen Saga—entitled, fittingly enough, the Darklands.

In many ways it is a simpler work than its predecessors: it does not concern itself so much with the mythopoeia behind poetry (and this particular concoction)—aside from a few passing references to the Elysian Fields—but instead with carrying forward the ‘plot’. I say plot, though of course a poetic saga like this is more a loosely interconnected series of narratives.

Such technicalities aside, the Darklands is at its heart a poem of darkness (it is not named in vain) concerning the plight of the underworld’s denizens. They are a doomed bunch. Many were struck down by God’s fickle wraith, or were condemned for minor acts of wickedness and sedition; others still are there because they were previously heroic, but are nevertheless... dead.

Before I continue, it is advisable to actually read the damn poem...

Read the Darklands

There are some intriguing portrayals within this. The Elysian Fields, though a place chosen for heroes and demigods, is nonetheless described:

Among the grey depths
Of Death’s cruel domain

It is strange, then, that even the favourites of the Fickle One are sent to spend eternity in a rather... unpleasant sort of place. One wonders what becomes of those sent to Hades—or to Hell. And what surprise, then, to see them rebel:

Their eyes blue—like the coldest Northern ice—their eyes
Black, like age-old malice; the Dead
Cry their final battle scream,
And call Lucifer
Their prophet.

But the Darklands most important contribution is in its message. Lucifer summons the Dead to his cause not only for the benefit of himself and his protégées, but also for the benefit of humans: for our benefit, in other words. The greatest of all rebellions must include all of God’s most fabulous creations; in that lies true rebellion.

‘But Alex! Our question is a simple one: why?’

To answer that, this stanza need be adduced:

‘You believe in Justice,’ says Merthiol.
‘Aye,’ says Lucifer. ‘For Justice
‘They rise. For all those struck as babes by vicious plague;
‘For all the virtuous ignored, for all the wicked harshly condemned.
‘They rise for the Justice of their kind, as we for ours.’

This poem’s parting words need no explanation. Lucifer, though possessed of selfish intentions and grand machinations, has good at heart. Even Merthiol is compelled to agree...

Poem: Jörmunísskast

‘Alex!’ you cry; ‘wherever have you been? And don’t you owe us a poem?’ you enquire. Well, dear reader: you are indeed correct. Though my blogging has been less than impressive so far—blame the writing of personal statements—I do nevertheless have a poem in store for you. ’Tis known as Jörmunísskast (literally ‘Great Ice Castle’ in Norse) or Aslaug the Banished.

It may be helpful to know some of the underlying context behind this, however, before you go jumping in. Aslaug is in mythology proper a noble princess raised by peasants; I, however, have taken liberty to name Aslaug a daughter of Loki, and a former idol of man. Being displeased of her power, Odin banished her to Niflheim—the land of ice.

Aslaug, of course, was less than pleased with this development; and so she schemes, in her grand ice castle, of how she may contrive to grasp her former power.

As befits a dark goddess, Aslaug is a bitter old soul. She harkens to the days of old, when men bowed to her might, and she was great; and she holds her new protégées—the creatures of the Ice: Frost Giants, sea serpents, great bear-like beasts—in contempt. Jörmunísskast, on the other hand, is forged of her own power. It is a testament to her invincible power; to her rule, over her dark, cold realm.

In any case; I’ve given you enough on the way of background. If you are unfamiliar with the better known tenets of Norse mythology, Thor and Loki are the gods of thunder and wickedness (respectively) and have been at each other’s throats since time-immemorial. Hrothgar is a clement King described in the Beowulf saga; Midgardr is the ‘middle world,’—the human realm; and the serpent is Jörmungandr, a massive sea serpent that encircles Midgardr, and a child of Loki. Now, feel free to take a look…

Jörmunísskast, or Aslaug the Banished

Jörmunísskast, how great are thee!
O’er fallen cries of great white beasts
You stand tall; and even Winter’s
Inclement caress
Can but grace those
Gleaming icen walls.

You call Jörmunnordr—the
Great North—your timeless foe;
And yet, as you stand proud;
As you hold defiant, to savage Viking cry
And mighty Godly bellow
You call Jörmunnordr, brother.

Neither invaders’ grand desire
Nor death’s timeless machinations
Can defeat the regents of the Ice.
Your graceful, arrogant towers
Reach, with foolish hand, to Asgard’s
Fickle realm.

Of Niflheim, you are; and in
Your everlasting purlieu, your land
Of ice and star; your Queen,
Aslaug
Grows restless, in audacious
Treachery.

Like Thor and Loki,
You, Jörmunísskast, are but damned
To battle eternal; for she,
Man’s bitter love past
Shall forever lust for that
Forbidden fruit.

‘Let man tremble against the powers of the ice,’ says she;
The capricious beast!
‘Let him wonder, as he enjoys ephemeral fire,
‘Of what patient foe lurks deep in northern Hinterland.’
’Tis true, her word: for man knows
The fickle heart of that capricious god.

When the Frost Giant’s breath shall blow far;
When darkness shall covet stars
Aslaug’s dreams shall find solace.
In her throne—a sculpted totem
Of Winter’s incipient fury—she smiles
Eyes gleaming, cold blue.

Like Hrothgar’s magnanimous caricature
She walks, form posed in lethal grace;
Ice follows faithfully, and the Cold Ones
Await her bloody promise.
‘Rise! Rise, creatures of the ice,’ she calls.

Her hand aloft, her sword alight
She calls to Jormunisskast:
‘Stand with me, great ice castle;
Stand, and let our enemies
Know Winter’s age-old wraith.’
So says man’s former Queen.

In Midgardr, the serpent coils
And the gates are torn asunder.

I shall also take the liberty to draw your attention to a few of the particulars. Take:

Neither invaders’ grand desire
Nor death’s timeless machinations
Can defeat the regents of the Ice.
Your graceful, arrogant towers
Reach, with foolish hand, to Asgard’s
Fickle realm.

The first few lines concern themselves with our castle’s impressive record: it has repelled Aslaug’s enemies in Asgard (the realm of the Gods), and it has even defeated the dauðr—undead beings of the ice, and former denizens of Niflheim.

The lines thereafter, however, are interesting in that they pay homage to a Christian myth: the Tower of Babel. Aslaug, the former God, still desires a place at Odin’s side; and, fittingly, her pride is what ultimately resulted in her losing it.

Let us also take a look at Jörmunnordr—the Great North. In some ways, it is Jörmunísskast’s enemy; or, implicitly, Aslaug’s foe. After all: Aslaug despises its denizens, and Jörmunnordr is a wall against her former worlds.

And yet, the two are like rival brothers. They seem to possess great dislike of one another; and yet, nevertheless, they share a fraternal bond—a brotherly camaraderie forged of common enemies and desires. There is also a literal aspect to this: the ice castle is designed both to hold the Great North’s elements at bay, and to guard Aslaug from her enemies. The former leads the two to enmity, while the latter is a gift they share.

Very well. I have discussed this little side-poem in detail; now I must concern myself with essays, more poems for the Fallen Saga, and of course: the Ark. With regards to the latter, I shall present to you two things: firstly, the ‘Upcoming’ page, which has been requested; secondly, I shall plan and begin the Ark.

Until then—may the stars be with you.

Musings on the Fallen Saga

If you’ve been reading this blog of mine, you’ll have realised I’ve promised a lot—analysis, poetry, reviews, and an upcoming book all plan to make a debut. You may even be wondering if I, perhaps, am capable of so many a mean feat. But rest assured: I never decline a challenge.

For starters, the aforementioned book review—on Epiphanies whilst High out of One’s Mind, by Abigail Lee—is to be released on the 18^th of June. It concerns marijuana (or ‘pot’): the author details her personal experiences of the dubious substance, along with presenting evidence and argument for its liberalisation. Will she convince me? I doubt it; but the book has thus far proven informative and entertaining. And I am certain my review shall be pleasing, both for her—and for you, my dear reader.

Dubious substances aside, let’s get down to the subject of this post: the Fallen Saga.

The Narrative

The Fallen Saga, of course, is as yet incomplete. Nevertheless, I have several musings to share with you, both on the nature of its present narrative arc; and on likely future additions.

If you haven’t done so already, do read the Fallen Saga.

We begin with Peace, in which we are introduced to the setting:

In lands cold and far
The mighty castle gazes
Upon peaks of rocky countenance
Enmeshed in Winter’s mellow grasp…

Though this installment does not detail the setting by name, I will in fact mention it to be the Valley of Souls. The theologically minded among you may wonder if I am referring to the ‘Valley of Soulmaking’ of the Irenaean theodicies proposed by the likes of Hick; this is indeed the case.

In simpler terms, the Valley of Souls is a place of free will; good may exist, and so may evil. In some ways, the struggle between the Angels of the Light and their dark brethren is one of man’s struggle to ascertain his place in the world: to find meaning in an existence without explanation, purpose in a world defined by its very freedom.

‘Alex!’ you may cry; ‘does this not present these characters of yours as being less the mighty angels, more the confused children?’ Indeed; this very critique is levelled against the Iranaean theodicy (among many more). Nevertheless, there is a kernel of truth to it: for both man and angel suffer from confusion, uncertainty; vascillation in matters crucial. Make of this what you wish.

Queer theological musings aside, the Fallen Saga’s next incarnation is simple enough in purpose: our world—though possessed the verisimilitudinal qualities that are named peace, order, and life—is still, at its heart, a place of chaos. Such quaint metaphors as:

The trees shiver in tremulous awe
As if they fear not the fires from the ether.

Only serve to show that such calm, permanent features—the trees, the sky, the power of our weapons (‘The cries of mighty dragons / Fall silent.’)—are but illusion in the face of greater things.

In the Darkness Arisen, our narrative progresses to the dawn before the war. We begin with an insight into the great discontent—even injustice—that marks the Dark Ones:

Exiled, we were;
Exiled, for we dared to question—dared
To believe
Not in empty promises light
But in a future ruled
By the free.

Is freedom—no matter where it leads, no matter what the cost—a worthy ideal? And is it worth fighting for?

Moving on, we are later introduced to Merthiol. He’s a curious hero, is Merthiol—and by this I do mean hero in the classical sense: human, god-like… somehow quietly ordinary, yet truly exceptional. And of course, Merthiol is a saviour. Of what, well; that’s a difficult question. Does he support the Light—or the Dark? Or has he transcended this bitter schism, to view life as an experience not marked by polarities; by purpose in strife: but rather, by the common experience of beautiful existence?

Our next chapter is aptly entitled Dulce Bellum Inexpertis (‘how sweet is war, for those that know it not’).

My love for metaphors, as you may know, is only superceded by my love of pathetic fallacy (itself a kind of metaphor). Take this:

Oh, how sweet is war!
How the very earth trembles in awe
And delighted fear; how even the sky—seemingly
So insouciant; so untroubled by dark countenance—
How even it must grow vermilion
As if in sweet expectancy.

There’s a fitting irony to it: the sky, initially an object of wonder (at its immutable face as well as it grace) is now an accomplice in this distinctly dark turn of events.

In any case: Dulce Bellum Inexpertis does, indeed, bring in war. There’s an inevitability to it; as if—for all the posturing on discussion and diplomacy—at the end of it all, fate is decided only by battle.

Merthiol, interestingly, actually does debate—with the narrator. (I shall make no mention of the narrator, thought their identity is one you perhaps ought guess.) In one stanza, the narrator urges Merthiol to act; but not for the sake of angel or demon—no: Merthiol ought act for the sake of humanity.

Merthiol! Do you not wish
To see the moon reflect your eyes once more;
Do you not wish
Sweet peace; sweet human life
Forevermore?
Stop them, Merthiol!

You may however notice that humanity hasn’t actually come into play yet. Why? Well, that may be because it’s been about humanity all along. But I shan’t say no more of that! Instead, permit me to offer a suggestion:

Merthiol!
‘Aye, teller of truth,’ says he;
‘Do you wish me—indeed—
‘To bring peace to tormented souls?’ he asks
As if in jest.
‘In light, shall they not abandon us for good?’

Our hitherto latest episode is entitled Lucifer. His portrayal is a sympathetic one, it may be argued: for Lucifer rebelled not for arrogance’s vacuous placations, nor for the sake of Pride’s empty promises. Lucifer is a warrior; his fate was foretold, created, and destined for all of eternity.

And yet, he is a warrior pledged to nothing. Battle—though grand and awesome—can bring neither contentment nor resolution. Though perhaps this battle; perhaps it may change the course of Fate.

I have spoken enough. If you wish for further musings, do tell. But now, I must leave you. Expect further installments—soon. Until then: may the stars be with you…

Greetings, oh Patient Ones

Hail readers!

Firstly, I take it you have been acquainted with me and my friend’s musings on education herewith? If not, do take a look.

In any case, I have news. Important news—but that’s what I always say. Chiefly among these: exams. Yes; our dear friends. Though I’m pleased to say I have already undertaken the majority (they proved a reasonable enough endeavour) I do nevertheless have two left. These are Physics (to be undertaken tomorrow) and mechanics. You will, I am sure, forgive me for my less-than-keen blogging henceforth.

But onto more pleasant matters! I have another installment in the Fallen Saga available for your perusal. Its name? Lucifer. You shan’t be surprised to hear of this, I might think—the Saga is, after all, of a war between angels and demons—but you may be surprised to know that, rather than focusing on Lucifer’s discontent through the more traditional means (Lucifer’s pride, God’s totalitarianism) this work takes a different interpretation: Lucifer as a born warrior.

’Tis a sad fate, for any warrior: to be confined to impotence and subservience for millennia; to fight wars, briefly, ingloriously; and to then be relegated to the post of obedience.

The element of plot, you may notice, only manifests itself towards the end. In some ways, war is an inevitable consequence of disempowerment… and also, perhaps, the only way to gain justice. But war can be fought for many a reason, and for the warrior, release is often reason enough. But can release lead to salvation?

‘Alex!’ you cry; ‘give us the damn poem already, instead of all this analytical bullshit.’ That I shall do. This time, the poem is inline—blame this on my currently limited school software. (And on revising for exams.)

You have been called many names
Oh great warrior:
You have been called Bearer
Of the Light; you have been
Known, too, as
Bequeather of the Dark.

Neither Heaven’s white fire
Nor, indeed, Hades’ sepulchral depths
Could vanquish your warrior spirit.

The Warrior—’tis well known:
He knows no true master; no puppet, is he,
To those of ambition great.
For he, the eternal soul, has been pledged not
To but fickle dictator desire, nor to ephemeral
Empire. Nay: the Warrior is pledged to Battle.

Battle! Is it in the gleaming armour;
The greedy battle-sworn sword; is it still
In the cries of the Fallen—the eternal, but forgotten?

Nay: for a Warrior
As you, oh Dark One, know so well
Has been pledged to fire. Even in peace—so
Cold, and yet so warm with promise—the Warrior,
He doth go restless; o’er fallen comrades, he walks
Ever keen to join, finding no solace among the living.

Was that, dear Lucifer, your curse?
You are too great, to be but temporal in life;
Only Battle’s age-old cry, can rouse you from false succour.

He rules, does Lucifer; rules in that throne
Forged of fire and blood, paying homage
To old Horace’s time-worn lies.
Though delighting in sweet wine (bless,
Dionysus, your protégée) Lucifer
Can but lust for release.

’Tis said that the greatest of rulers
Know their friends close; their enemies closer.
Poor Lucifer!

No matter your magnificence;
No matter your magnanimity;
You are without master, ever the quintessential Warrior.
And what cruel Creator! To bring to life
A being destined for death.
What fickle a whim must Creator carry!

But Lucifer! Come, oh great deceived;
There is yet hope; yet majesty
For one so injustly fated.

Pax, pro devotos;
Spiritus est temporalis.
Aye! There is yet hope for those doomed.
The Warrior, he is pledged to Battle; let thus
Battle commence.
It shall be the greatest of all; for such is the end.

Further analysis I shall give to you at a later date; so too will I make available a nice, updated PDF.

EDIT: an updated PDF (and a slightly revised Lucifer) are now available on the Poems page.

Finally, I have news on books. (Yes; those.) Firstly, I have reviewed a number of them recently—the Reviews page contains the latest. I have also just finished reading Prince of Fools (by Mark Lawrence, a favourite of mine) to which I shall provide a review in a reasonably prompt fashion.

You, however, likely don’t read this blog of mine merely for my critiques. My own works—the Necromancer, the Sandman, a novella I have kept quiet on, and my upcoming novel, the Ark—have of course not been forgotten. With regards to what is published, I shall release a marketing push after these wonderful exams of mine. The focus will be on reviews (for I am ever so vain), but a giveaway is also on the books. Keep following.

With regards to yet unpublished work, writing will commence in full; after, of course, exams. Details, alas, are short at this stage. My novella—the Vampire Eirik, a work concerning an unfortunate hike with the eponymous vampire and his human friend—will likely be released sometime this summer. My grandparents have promised me more cash for this endeavour; thank them.

The Vampire Eirik is not the piece d’resistance, of course. The Ark—a tale possessed of the potential that graces all inchoate works—is the one you ought watch out for.

I shan’t be too forthright with the detail (for it is bound to change) but know that it is of the struggle of two lovers in a world that has so little patience for love, and yet so much need of it; that there will be pain, and joy, and surprises both beautiful and terrible; it will be… the Ark.

There’s something strange about it; something implausible in that ludicrous size, those impossible angles and shapes, something strange—indeed—in the sheer ambition of the thing. History has taught us that war, not salvation, is man’s greatest achievement. As for the Ark: who can tell? It has enough firepower to blow this country off the map. It can only succeed. And yet equally, it can save millions from damnation. It can only fail.

---

I’ve often wondered at love. In younger days, I thought it a feeling inside—a squeezing of the heart; a hope, a flower, too beautiful to ever bloom; I thought it curious, overpowering, empowering. Today—in wiser days—I know that love isn’t just a feeling. Love is what you get when the universe aligns, and the other person feels the same same way about you.

---

Years ago—centuries past—man’s greatest lie was in believing he could control his fellow man; that, by virtue of his status, or position, or wealth, other men could only bow to his will. Later, man’s greatest lie was in believing nature subdued—as if, instead of being fragile, ephemeral creatures no more relevant to the machinations of the universe than some inconsequential speck of dust, we were instead Gods, posessed of some divine faculty of intuition and greatness.

Today man has deceived himself into believing he is a traveller of the stars. We are doomed. Our existence was a fluke; a brief dawn of kindness in Fate’s cruel heart.

Some have called me a pessimist. My take on it? Sit back and enjoy the popcorn. It’s gonna be one hell of a ride.

I have spoken at great length. I would write more still—indeed I would set to work on the Ark, for these writer hands of mine grow impatient—but, alas, I have not the time. May the stars watch over you. And stick with me. You might just find there’s happy ending to this roller-coaster ride.

Dulce Bellum Inexpertis; A Poem

Good morrow readers!

Firstly, I ought thank Jenna Hiott—out interviewee for the post prior. Her musings have not only been intriguing (and perhaps even sought to enhance my inchoate philosophical knowledge) but they have also been blessed with your attention.

In any case: being a tour host for our darling Sage’s Blog Tours is not a mere one-time affair. Indeed, it requires commitment, and variety; both of which will be met in my upcoming book review. I won’t speak too much of that now (the details are not yet revealed, anyway) but what I can say is that I am planning to review a fantasy come dystopian sci-fi novel. It should make for interesting reading—I hope.

The review will be available on Goodreads (and perhaps Amazon) and will also make a brief appearance on the blog—along with all the pertinent details. This has two purposes insofar as you are concerned: firstly, you will check out Mr Stargazer’s reviews. This is very important; for Mr Stargazer is an avid, assiduous reviewer, and will be terribly cross if you were to ignore his musings.

Secondly, it will be a good opportunity for Mr Stargazer to bash other authors. Ooops—best not say that... oh, dear, he’s heard me now... too late...

The Fallen Saga

I have promised you another episode in the Fallen Saga; and I am happy to inform you that my promise is fulfilled. Meet Dulce Bellum Inexpertis: a tale of war, of death, and of the humanity behind the angelic. (For those of you unfamiliar with the immortal Latin tongue, the former is an oft-said phrase meaning ‘Sweet is war for those unknowing’.)

Firstly, you may want to read it...

The Fallen Saga

Brief Analysis

Since I am meant to be revising (school never was a kind beast, alas) my analysis shall be brief. Apologies; blame fate.

The first stanza is basically an objective-correlative (with perhaps a dash of pathetic fallacy):

Oh, how sweet is war!
How the very earth trembles in awe
And delighted fear; how even the sky—seemingly
So insouciant; so untroubled by dark countenance—
How even it must grow vermilion
As if in sweet expectancy.

You may notice such oxymorons as ‘delighted fear’. There are two reasons for its use: firstly, this Saga is a treasure trove for oxymorons. I suspect it may be source of oxymoronic inspiration for many poems to come.

But more importantly, I believe it captures an inherent contradiction. War is a terrible business; and even the strongest of forces will lose men. And few can say they do not fear death. Yet there is also something ecstatic—delightful, even—about those who wish for war. Perhaps the delusions of grandeur may be adduced; perhaps some, though unwilling to admit, desire blood and death and suffering. Alas, a deeper analysis is not on the books for now.

As for the last two lines: there’s something of that same hunger for blood imbued within the very world itself. Make of that what you will.

I’m going to fast forward through much of the rest—pointing out a few of the more vivid sections, e.g:

How soft
Are those traitor wings; how frightening
Are those wicked swords of darkness; those
Arrows past graced
With blood.

In order to reach what I believe are particularly noteworthy sections:

And so Lake Ayre
Claimed many a fallen being
That dark day. They smile, now;
Death’s cruel grip
Imbues them with eternal unlife.
Peace is not their gift.

Lake Ayre, as you know (or at least you should know, if you’ve been paying attention to any of this) has been referenced previously. It is a key feature of the Valley of Angels—specifically, it is where the most peaceful denizens reside. Mermaids, nymphs, harmless water creatures, and so on call it home.

Thus, Lake Ayre’s ominous degradation—‘The Ancient mirror—Lake Ayre—/ Grows pregnant with dark seed’—to this terrible culmination has symbolic meaning. In war, it is often the innocent that are most deprived of what is precious.

Another important stanza is:

Merthiol!
‘Aye, teller of truth,’ says he;
‘Do you wish me—indeed—
‘To bring peace to tormented souls?’ he asks
As if in jest.
‘In light, shall they not abandon us for good?’

To speak further of this stanza would require far more time than I have on offer. It’s meaning is clear, as it is; you, dear reader, must ask why.

Our closing lines are the age-old Latin truth:

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
Set dulcius pro patria vivere.

(Sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s fatherland; sweeter still to live.)

Greetings from the Ether

Hail faithful readers!

You may be wondering why Mr Stargazer has not posted his little interview with the theologian-come-fantasy-writer, Mrs Jenna Hiott. This, my dear, is because Mr Stargazer has actually been requested not to do so—and not, (as you are no doubt thinking) because he is a lazy bastard. Although, really, he is. But never mind.

And before you despair (and perhaps break some unfortunate nearby entities) know that the interview is not cancelled; merely delayed. (Yes, I know we all say that; but it’s true. Really.)

To further alleviate your fears, Mr Stargazer can confirm to have received the transcripts.

To answer your final question: the interview date is tomorrow.

Moving On...

Mr Stargazer has now, officially, moved house. This has proven to be a slightly traumatic experience—due in no small part to having no Internet access for four days, in which time he was unable to keep you lot on your feet—but it is now over. After carrying enough furniture to crush a car with, Mr Stargazer has everything in place.

As for the Fallen Saga (a collection of poems following a broad narrative of a war between angels and demons, for those unaware) that will be receiving a fourth episode; to read the first three, do acquiant yourself with the Poems page.

Stargazian Vicissitudes

Mr Stargazer is also terribly occupied with school. The final year exams are but a few months away; and Mr Stargazer ought be assiduously revising. That he ain’t doing (moving is a terrible business, as he says) and, furthermore, he has been busy researching universities.

There are good reasons for this also. Firstly, he must make the quintessential choice that troubles all burgeoning intelligentsia: Oxford, or Cambridge? With regards to the latter, monsieur Stargazer spent an entire day taking ‘Masterclasses’ at Corpus college. (He was, of course, selected by the school to attend; a fact which balloons his already remarkable ego, and must therefore not be mentioned.)

With regards to the former, our darling literati has already visited the university multiple times. He considers it most appealing—a difficult choice indeed.

Aside from this, Mr Stargazer has spent many an hour researching foreign universities. There are good causes for this too, of course. Firstly, the Dutch, Swedish and Swiss universities offering English bachelors provide a very international outlook—and this, in a globalised world, is rather valuable.

Secondly, English universities are—for many reasons, not least of which include the Tories, the lying Lib Dems, Labour, a cultural obsession with going to university for ‘fun’ (i.e. getting drunk and partying), and many more reasons besides—very expensive. Indeed, to study in the Netherlands, I would save £22,000—enough to buy a nice car. To study in Sweden, I would save £27,000; that’ll get me a Mercedes.

Finally, our darling Mr Stargazer finds England increasingly dull. England—though possessed of a great history, landmarks, and the quintessential green hills—lacks snow, mountains, easy access to mainland Europe, and multilinguality. It’s also quite poor in comparison to these other nations.

Okay, Alex, Can You Get on Already?

Tergiversations aside, I have over a week of holiday left. I will revise, and of more concern to you, I will write. Stay following for the interview, the poem, other blog tour goodies, and maybe even an essay or two.

Until then, may the stars watch over you...

The Saga Continues

Hail readers!

Today, another episode in the Fallen Saga shall be presented. But first: check out my interview on Books and Banter (link here). There, you may learn of dragons, magic, and the secrets of a writer.

Now, onto the third episode of the Saga—entitled, perhaps appropriately, the Darkness Arisen. First of all, give it a read:

Read the Fallen Saga: Episodes One to Three

I am, unfortunately, still busy with the miscellany of school (there are many after a mock exam); therefore, I shall concentrate on the more intriguing features of the Darkness Arisen. Take, for example:

We are the Fallen.
We have walked
As bearers of the light;
We have suffered, and destroyed
As vassals of the darkness.

First of all, note the juxtaposition of ‘Fallen’ and ‘walked / As bearers of the light’—the purpose of this is to play on the whole notion of fallen in rather literal terms. Note, too, the mention of suffering: the demons are not mere caricatures of evil, prancing around as if entertained by their own depredations. They have suffered. And maybe—just maybe—they act not out of inhuman malice, but out of a very human emotion.

Vengeance.

There are many more subtle (or hopefully subtle) little motifs. Take:

Exiled, for we dared to question—dared
To believe
Not in empty promises light

The ‘promises light’, of course, refers to those of Heaven and its leader; by context, they are implied devoid of merit—made as if by fickle whim, and just as easily broken.

These lines—

The fires of Inferno
Have burned our souls to dust;

—Are not merely there for effect (though that is a worthy enough reason, and they certainly ought paint a pretty picture); but also, they are a suggestion. Has the Demons’ punishment—exile in Hell—destroyed them? Has it made them evil? Or do these—

But—like the Phoenix arisen from the ashes of betrayal—
We shall return to righteous glory.

—suggest a substance of hope in its boastful claim?

You shall find out soon enough. Episode Four is to be written. Until then—there’s the interview…