Star
Born in the east
Risen from the least
A light to shine the way.
Three
The Kings of old
The ancient and bold,
Set to follow afar.
Many
The leagues they crossed
Despite what accost,
While the star led the way.
Cold
The stable lowly
Elevated Holy
by he who came to die.
One
The king of kings
The purpose he brings,
The world by him to save.
Wishing you all A Merry Christmas. God bless!
-An Ordinary
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Christmas ditty
Allo! So as you may have noticed, fall is already in its zenith, and Christmas draws nearer. I decided to write this little ditty (free verse) to share with you. Enjoy!
It was a cold and dreary night,
Lit naught save but starlight,
yet fervent hopes,
and yearning dreams,
would culminate in stable sight,
of animals and kings.
Thats about all for now. Kinda short, but I will have some Halloween and fall-themed stuff comin soon.
Au revoir!
~An Ordinary
It was a cold and dreary night,
Lit naught save but starlight,
yet fervent hopes,
and yearning dreams,
would culminate in stable sight,
of animals and kings.
Thats about all for now. Kinda short, but I will have some Halloween and fall-themed stuff comin soon.
Au revoir!
~An Ordinary
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Oi! I have been working on imitating other poet's styles for Writing, and i recently did three. I thought I ought to share them with you! The first is (supposed to be) imbued with characteristics that classified the neoclassical/Augustan poet William Cowper. Here it is.
Flood -
The clouds in the sky, still rolling away
Whist and wither bound, they speak storms of may,
Dark and diligent they are born asunder,
Till a sky of blue is torn from black thunder.
An earthward downpour, a rain’s gentle caress
Accompanied and fraught, with a hail’s dark depress,
The swollen rivers and cold thrashing streams,
Swarm far below, the end of ferverent dreams.
The sparrow has flown, away the fox has fled
Never to return, either to nest or to bed,
Now all life is but naught beneath sun moon and stars,
Yet the fault not theirs, is eternally ours.
Time strains on without man’s diligent delay,
And the sun is still casting its golden ray,
Far below upon man’s deep, dark watery grave,
Where by an ark God chose, the race of man to save.
As the waters recede, life shall begin anew
Still to cycle once again, dusk, dawn, and dew;
Until that final day, when Time is ripe at last,
The ending harvest come, the test of life is passed.
Any thoughts? ideas? Personally this is my least favorite part of poetry, having to copy the style of another. Its so much easier to write stuff in my own way, and it generally turns out a lot better too. Anyhow, this next poem is supposed to be off the writing flair of Sir John Suckling (interesting name), a cavalier poet from the 17th century. It is interesting to find that nearly all of his works are on the subject of love, so I have written mine accordingly. This is the one I struggled worst with, and is definitely not as good as the others. Perhaps the only thing i like about this poem is the ending stanza.
Away -
Alas, for away! Away you fly
Faster, faster so than me;
I follow swift, swift as I can,
But away, away you flee.
I only pray in time you’ll see,
That I your only lover,
Could ne'er follow naught but thee,
Yet my soul was made to suffer.
I dream again of that occasion,
When she and only she,
Will turn and to my face confess,
I have loved none but thee.
But until upon that days delight,
I shall contend to only be,
The fleeting stranger of the night,
Until at last you see.
The third and final piece is likened to that of Richard Lovelace, a very VERY famous 17th Century cavalier poet. This was perhaps my favorite one to write, though there are a few rough spots.
Escape -
Of Lady Tragedy, he ran afoul
Yet ‘fore she loos’d her wrathful fire,
He set intent to make her howl,
And escape the moment dire.
Ev’ry time he slipped away
His trail she did follow,
Yet without moment’s delay,
She found his hiding hollow.
In anger’d spite she did conclude
That force to wit had lost,
Cunning must not be exclude,
To brutish strength accost.
Thats about it. Thanks for readin!
~An Ordinary
Flood -
The clouds in the sky, still rolling away
Whist and wither bound, they speak storms of may,
Dark and diligent they are born asunder,
Till a sky of blue is torn from black thunder.
An earthward downpour, a rain’s gentle caress
Accompanied and fraught, with a hail’s dark depress,
The swollen rivers and cold thrashing streams,
Swarm far below, the end of ferverent dreams.
The sparrow has flown, away the fox has fled
Never to return, either to nest or to bed,
Now all life is but naught beneath sun moon and stars,
Yet the fault not theirs, is eternally ours.
Time strains on without man’s diligent delay,
And the sun is still casting its golden ray,
Far below upon man’s deep, dark watery grave,
Where by an ark God chose, the race of man to save.
As the waters recede, life shall begin anew
Still to cycle once again, dusk, dawn, and dew;
Until that final day, when Time is ripe at last,
The ending harvest come, the test of life is passed.
Any thoughts? ideas? Personally this is my least favorite part of poetry, having to copy the style of another. Its so much easier to write stuff in my own way, and it generally turns out a lot better too. Anyhow, this next poem is supposed to be off the writing flair of Sir John Suckling (interesting name), a cavalier poet from the 17th century. It is interesting to find that nearly all of his works are on the subject of love, so I have written mine accordingly. This is the one I struggled worst with, and is definitely not as good as the others. Perhaps the only thing i like about this poem is the ending stanza.
Away -
Alas, for away! Away you fly
Faster, faster so than me;
I follow swift, swift as I can,
But away, away you flee.
I only pray in time you’ll see,
That I your only lover,
Could ne'er follow naught but thee,
Yet my soul was made to suffer.
I dream again of that occasion,
When she and only she,
Will turn and to my face confess,
I have loved none but thee.
But until upon that days delight,
I shall contend to only be,
The fleeting stranger of the night,
Until at last you see.
The third and final piece is likened to that of Richard Lovelace, a very VERY famous 17th Century cavalier poet. This was perhaps my favorite one to write, though there are a few rough spots.
Escape -
Of Lady Tragedy, he ran afoul
Yet ‘fore she loos’d her wrathful fire,
He set intent to make her howl,
And escape the moment dire.
Ev’ry time he slipped away
His trail she did follow,
Yet without moment’s delay,
She found his hiding hollow.
In anger’d spite she did conclude
That force to wit had lost,
Cunning must not be exclude,
To brutish strength accost.
Thats about it. Thanks for readin!
~An Ordinary
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Here we go!
Well, Here's that story I promised ya'll. Its a bit long! I would greatly appreciate feedback! Don't be intimidated by its length. Its 12 pages if its in double space.
‘Tis a sad world we live, don’t you think? Personally, I never thought I would live to see the day when one such as I would be treated like one from the gutter. Who am I? My name is Rufus Auralius Perrywinkle Rattler the III. I am a serpent of the Rattle, a high order amongst my people. For generations we mountain dwellers have resided in third peak, a respectable neighborhood situated above the impoverished woodland realm near Cougar Mountain in the heart of West Virginia. It seems ironic, even aggravating, that those silly creatures called humans insist upon referring to my home as “Cougar” Mountain when felines have not taken up abode anywhere near here within the past century. In fact, the most predominant species in the land is the serpent, so it would rather be more appropriate to term the ancient rise “Mount of the Serpent” (though man would more likely use that debilitating term, “snake,” a sound not unlike that of a nail on rough glass). Enough with the introduction, but before I commence fully with the tale of my woes, allow me to historical background of Cougar Mountain. Now why don’t you just fix the picture your mind has created from my words real good in that brain of yours? Once that’s done, allow me to go into a little…historical explanation.
Many years ago, when my grandserp (our tongue for grandfather) was alive, a great disturbance rose in the valley below our mountain. A large amount of refugees (generally squirrels, though some deer were part of the group) joined the dwellers of third peak, most carrying fantastical tales of “tree-eating monsters.” From what my ancestor could glean from the uneducated inhabitants of the valley, large machines made of iron had swallowed many of the trees below and spat them back out in large stacks. Naturally, he concluded that they had all gone utterly insane. Yet being the educated serpent that he was, he was well aware that every story’s seed of origin (no matter how ridiculous) contains at least a tincture of truth. Thus he put his mind to the careful scrutiny and examination of the jibber-jabber relayed to his personage by the estranged creatures of the world. Upon his seventh hour of contemplation, he reached the conclusion that if anything had moved in “downstairs,” it was most likely – if not probably – humanity. The following day, he made it a point to leave his habitual surroundings of the mountaintop and find what changes had occurred in the valley below. After he descended, he noticed the air had gradually become agitated with sound, bubbling and frothing like boiled water brimming the edge of a goblet. With increasing unease tempered by curiosity, my grandserp completed the last leg of his journey and entered the valley. The sight that greeted him was a solemn one. A good twelve acres of forest had been leveled, the foliage cleared away, and eight log cabins (along with a mess hall, lodge, and shack) had been erected. Humans lumbered this way and that, most carrying an object resembling a blunted stone mounted on a branch.
Now that I have brought you completely up to date as far as historical significance, do you feel ready to pick up where we left off? Good.
As you are probably now wondering, the buildings mentioned earlier belong to what humanity refers to as a “camp.” Every August the grounds below would be flooded with young boys dressed exactly alike in those changeable skins that Man uses; in turn, each of those skins was decorated with intriguing symbols – letters, I believe they are called. Being able to read myself, I could clearly make out the words “Camp Hemlock” and “Christian Service Brigade” upon its exterior. Generally, these boys were the only inhabitants of the clearing, besides the occasional father here or there. Or so I thought. One year, I ran into a group that I will refer to entirely as the “hunters.”
The hunters were composed of five or six of the human race that were larger than boys, yet smaller than men, undoubtedly adolescents. None of their group wore the camp skin, yet they seemed to be associated with the establishment itself in some way. On several occasions I saw them performing the more laborious jobs, hacking down trees and carrying away the logs. The first time I encountered them was on one of my annual descents to the valley (I saw fit to keep a watchful eye on the human habitations, investigating every few weeks or so). I was gliding anonymously along the leaf-strewn ground near the building referred to as the “lodge” when one of the boys walked by. Of course I gave a polite hiss and rattled my tail once or twice in the traditional greeting. With a scream of terror, the human leaped ten feet in the air and scrambled up the nearest tree.
“Rattlesnake!!!!!” he screeched louder than I thought possible.
Now it was enough that he had already insulted me by responding to my greeting in such an inappropriate manner, but to use an honored and highly dignified word such as rattle alongside the filthy term “snake,” well that snuffed out the last bit of respect I felt towards this human, the now empty space being replaced by an almost violent anger. For it is one thing to insult one’s self, but to insult one’s race is another thing entirely.
I raised myself as high as I could and gave the fourth rattle – Man can never quite seem to understand that two rattles is a greeting, and four is a warning – bared my fangs and let him know what I thought of him (the exact wording I won’t repeat here). Now this was rather useless because humans cannot understand Ser-tongue, a complicated combination of the head and tongue movement. Hissing is part of our warning system, not (as humans suppose) our way of communicating. So I was engaged in a verbal warfare with the boy when I heard a whistling through the air. Instinctively, I shot to the right, my lightning-quick reflexes saving me from the spear that shot past nano-seconds later. An exclamation of excitement vibrated the air from behind me, and I whirled around with fangs extended and rattle blaring. Before my eyes stood one of the hunters, the largest of them all. The oldest among his group, this particular hunter was a young man. Long brown hair in need of grooming hung straight down over a red bandanna on his brow, its length ending within a few inches of his shoulders. Though it was long, the bird’s nest of his hair did not cover his cold blue eyes. With an almost hungry look he brandished a tomahawk from the case at his side and tensed his heavily-muscled form as if he was going to attack. Soon the rest of the hunters joined the ever-growing circle around my apparently curious personage.
All six of them were crowded around me now, the five newcomers observing me with interest. On the far left, the tallest hunter was saying something about “hit it on the head...,” his way past shoulder-length hair flying wildly as he flung his head left to right, the pupils of his hazel eyes nearly dilated. Next to him an almost equally tall fellow gazed at me with a disgusted mortification with his bright green eyes and prominent nose as if I were a giant earthworm that should be squished. After him, the next (not much younger than the first with the tomahawk) stood with mouth agape. Upon observation I found that he had a rather bland face and eyes that didn’t reveal a great amount of intelligence, yet I could have sworn that his spiked blond hair sparked electricity when I wasn’t looking directly at it. Overall, it was quite hard to take him seriously when his well-muscled arms were waving wildly in all directions, giving him the comical appearance of a befuddled orangutan. Standing beside him were the two shortest hunters, one with croppy brown hair, blue eyes, and of stout posture, the other even shorter with dirty blond hair and blue eyes (nearly hidden by a way-too-big army helmet from Vietnam). Both of them seemed completely astonished at my presence, though they treated me with a level of respect.
Surrounded and outnumbered, I turned and darted beneath the legs of the nearest hunter, the one with spiky hair. Ignoring the startled shout that accompanied my action, I sped as fast as I could back the way I had come. I seemed to have successfully slipped away in the confusion, for the humans did not give chase.
The next morning I was preparing to go out and catch myself a meal when voices sounded outside my abode. Stealthily I exited my burrow and chanced a glance from underneath my rock. What met me was not a welcome sight. Five of the hunters were gathered literally on the doorstep to my home, each of them armed. The oldest one carried his spear, the electric one a tomahawk, the tallest one was armed with a knife, and the two shorter ones carried a machete and a sharpened branch. As I was contemplating what I should do, a voice of another human rang across the clearing, and this time it was one of the men. He raised a small rectangular object to his face and the hunters froze in place, each of them looking serious and brandishing their weapons in a showy way. At first I thought they were going to do something violent, but the object in the man’s grasp clicked twice. Smiling, he took it away from his face and made an O.K. sign. As if by magic the hunters relaxed and began talking and laughing loudly. They then seemed to express thanks to the man, using several words like “camera” and “great shot.” After what seemed an eternity they left my doorstep. I watched them, with an uneasy feeling inside me, as they traveled north onto the fourth peak. Many of my good friends resided there, including some of my family. For a moment I felt compelled to deter them in some way, but I realized that I was only one and they were many. Yet the thought of what those disturbing humans might do to my friends if they ran into them made me shiver.
Almost eight hours later, one of my friends (Great Horn the Owl himself) appeared flying low over the ground, a limp rope-like object dangling from his talons. With a great deal of wing-work he landed softly on the ledge just outside my abode. With a start of horror, I noticed that the limp form was no rope at all but my dear friend and cousin, Marcus Antonius Drachmas Augusto the V. His rattler was a bloodied mess, and he was pierced (though not deeply) in many other places over his body. At first I was struck with the horrible thought that my friend had killed him for supper, but then I realized that the amicable owl would not have brought him here if he had. I looked upward at the owl questioningly.
“A group of man-child attacked him unawares. The wounds you see were inflicted by the oldest and most detested weapon of man, the spear. It was all I could do to swoop down and carry him off before they finished him. He should be able to recover, but he cannot do that in fourth peak. Those hunters have marked his home since it was on his very doorstep that the incident occurred. He will have to room with you until he heals,” Great Horn said, his commanding tone and dignified appearance having quite the affect on me. I nodded silently and gently curled part of my body around my cousin, dragging him into my home. I resolved to pay the hunters back for what they had done.
In the middle of the night I was awakened from a fitful sleep by a hysterical chirping that was apparently echoing from my doorstep and down into my burrow. With a sigh I knew it could only be one person at this time of night, Barry the Bat. Grumpily, I drug myself upward from the main room of my nest and through the long tunnels to the surface. As I exited my dwelling and entered the little dome beneath the rock, a small black object dove at me, squeaking at the top of its lungs.
“They’ve invaded my home! Robbers, t-thieves! M-m-murders! Help! I’m dying! My family! Fire! Tornado! Flood! The end of all things!”
My head spinning, I rattled my tail loudly to gain the bat-brained creature's attention. “Explain,” said I. Taking a deep breath, the small winged creature prepared to orate what appeared to be a long story.
“W-well, I w-w-was resting in my h-home, you know, t-the c-c-c-c……” Barry trailed off, and then began to wail. “My home! My family! Tornado! Murderers! Hurricane! Destruction! Bat-men from Mars!” Hissing loudly to exclaim my displeasure with his behavior, I attempted to calm him down.
. “What happened? Explain it slowly, and if you stutter one more time I’ll eat you” (I threw in the last bit playfully, but he seemed to take it seriously. Pity when no one gets a good joke). Gulping loudly, Barry began to speak again.
. “Well, I was resting quietly on one of the rock shelves in my home, contemplating the consistency of water-spiders…. You know that crunchy taste they have? Well I actually think that it might be more of a crackle than a crunch, since…” Barry trailed off, as he had noticed that I was looking extremely displeased. Swallowing loudly for the second time, he began again. “Well anyway, there was a bright light and loud voices. I was nearly blinded and began to flutter around wildly. I banged the ceiling, wall, and floor of my rocky corridor before I could see clearly. Before my very eyes were a group of humans! Six of them, actually. One of them had this long branch topped with a shiny object….It was actually rather attractive, you know? Like the coins I found last week. Do you think anyone will try to steal them from me? I hear they are valuable….”
But I had stopped listening. My mind had frozen once the description of the humans in the cave had been uttered. It was the hunters, and there was no doubt about it. But what were they doing in the caves?
With a subtle fear I bade the malapert Barry goodnight and ordered him to shut up before he attracted an unfriendly owl that would be the death of him. As I turned back to my tunnels, he zoomed by me and dove into the hole and journeyed deep into my nest (bats being rather like winged-mice, they can do other things than just fly). Groaning inwardly, I slowly glided into my tunnel-entrance. How many more guests would be joining me?
After an entire night of no sleep (Barry chattered for hours until I sent him off to explore the tunnels in which he made enough noise to wake the mountain itself from its deep slumber), I was met bright and early outside my doorstep by literally a crowd of copperheads. They all greeted me in their own fashion, flicking their tongues and dipping their heads. One of them slithered forward and spoke to me.
“We are in need of a shelter, brother. Five sons of Man caught us on our annual journey from water to the mountain, and it being the thirteenth day of our absence, we dare not end it at that number. May we stay with you until fourteen comes?”
I hissed my displeasure but nodded yes reluctantly. Copperheads were strange creatures. Not as high as the Order of the Rattle but not so lowly, either. Their customs were as strange as themselves, for being water creatures they believed deeply in luck. Particularly, bad luck. With a sinking feeling I watched all sixteen of the copperheads curl into a writhing mass just over the entrance to my tunnel. As if to explain this, the leader (who had yet to join his fellows) spoke to me. “It can be fatal to enter the abode of another than one’s own kind on an hour before noon. Unless the sun has reached its zenith, it is most certain that a painful death of some kind shall overtake you.” I nodded as if this made perfect sense, but in reality I viewed them all as raving lunatics.
Two hours later I was resting on the sun-heated rock above my abode when I heard the voices of the hunters. Quickly I dropped off the rock and darted in the direction of my hole, only to be met by the mass of visiting copperheads. When I asked them to move (and warned them of the danger) they refused, saying that it was midday and to move on dry land at this time would be disastrous. Just at that moment a hunter (they had now reached my abode) began to place his foot exactly where I was positioned. Rattling and hissing loudly I struck with full force at him, but my fangs were held back by the thick leather of his boots. With a cry of alarm he jerked his foot backward – with me still attached to it – and began jumping up and down to shake me off. It was the electric spiky one. At just the right moment I released and went flying towards the tall, long-haired one (my fangs bared). With a scream he threw his hands in front of his face and attempted to leap out of the way, but fell over instead, his foot having caught on a rock. I realized only too late that I was now headed dead-on for a spruce tree. Bracing myself for impact I collided with the immovable object, my body crumpled, and I fell to the ground in a painful daze.
Slowly I raised my pounding head and gave it a shake, attempting to clear my now hazy vision. When I finally managed to focus, I almost laughed out loud. During the entire episode the hunters had focused their attention on me, unaware of the throng of copperheads that were now milling towards them. Suddenly the one with the spear seemed to notice them from the corner of his eye. Shouting something unintelligible, he railed for his comrades’ attention. As if one, they turned and took in the sight of all sixteen serpents arrayed before them, heads raised and hisses of disapprobation issuing in rapidity. Before any of them could lose their minds, however, the oldest one extended his spear and struck at my fellows. Fearing someone could get hurt, I called anxiously for my brothers to back off. They did so by retreating into the crags and holes around the entrance to my nest. With their attention divided, I seized the moment and slipped past the hunters, heading full steam towards my hole. Just as I neared the entrance, Barry stuck his head out to see what had awakened him from his beauty sleep. I collided with him and forcefully shoved the belligerent creature back down the tunnel. I then dived down the hole with great quickness, yet it was not unnoticed. The hunter with the spear and bandanna had seen me and whirled into action.
Quickly tossing his spear aside, he dropped to his knees and began to gather pine needles and other brush. Once this was done, he piled them around my doorstep – even shoving some down the gullet of the tunnel – and withdrew a small stick, capped with red. Extending his hand, he ran the red end of the small stick across a stone, instantly lighting a flame. With a grin like a young child about to squash an ant, he dropped the burning brand onto the pile of dry brush. The perfect fuel exploded almost instantly into white hot flame. The fire soon raced down the tunnel towards my underground retreat – leaves and other foliage had built up in the tunnel after years of constant use – causing smoke to billow everywhere.
I reached the main room just ahead of hungry flames and managed to stop Barry from flying directly into its consuming grasp. Urgently, I roused my sleeping cousin and alerted him to the situation. By the time we were all heading out the back way, smoke had already filled the room. We traveled as fast as we could in single file towards the surface. When we reached fresh air, I almost collapsed. Barry was coughing and fluttering around aimlessly, dazed by the smoke. My eyes burning, I looked for the hunters. What met me was not only comical but just in its own way.
All five of the hunters were dancing wildly, or rather running, in circles. It seemed that the smoke had disturbed the hive of wasps that was situated in the branches of the nearby spruce. They, had in turn, responded with vengeance upon the hunters, showing no mercy. After receiving a good beating (or should I say stinging), they turned and sprinted in retreat down the mountain, shouting and waving their arms wildly. As I prepared to return to my now smoldering home, I found the copperheads gathered beneath the old spruce. The leader glided up to me and spoke.
“We must be leaving you now, brother, for when wasps and smoke are within twenty feet, it can be a sign of mortal danger. But I am thankful for your hospitality and feel regret for what those humans have done to your home. But in the end they were routed. So it seems, they bit off more than they could chew, an undoubted sign of….”
“Mortal danger,” I interrupted a brilliant smile on my face.
‘Tis a sad world we live, don’t you think? Personally, I never thought I would live to see the day when one such as I would be treated like one from the gutter. Who am I? My name is Rufus Auralius Perrywinkle Rattler the III. I am a serpent of the Rattle, a high order amongst my people. For generations we mountain dwellers have resided in third peak, a respectable neighborhood situated above the impoverished woodland realm near Cougar Mountain in the heart of West Virginia. It seems ironic, even aggravating, that those silly creatures called humans insist upon referring to my home as “Cougar” Mountain when felines have not taken up abode anywhere near here within the past century. In fact, the most predominant species in the land is the serpent, so it would rather be more appropriate to term the ancient rise “Mount of the Serpent” (though man would more likely use that debilitating term, “snake,” a sound not unlike that of a nail on rough glass). Enough with the introduction, but before I commence fully with the tale of my woes, allow me to historical background of Cougar Mountain. Now why don’t you just fix the picture your mind has created from my words real good in that brain of yours? Once that’s done, allow me to go into a little…historical explanation.
Many years ago, when my grandserp (our tongue for grandfather) was alive, a great disturbance rose in the valley below our mountain. A large amount of refugees (generally squirrels, though some deer were part of the group) joined the dwellers of third peak, most carrying fantastical tales of “tree-eating monsters.” From what my ancestor could glean from the uneducated inhabitants of the valley, large machines made of iron had swallowed many of the trees below and spat them back out in large stacks. Naturally, he concluded that they had all gone utterly insane. Yet being the educated serpent that he was, he was well aware that every story’s seed of origin (no matter how ridiculous) contains at least a tincture of truth. Thus he put his mind to the careful scrutiny and examination of the jibber-jabber relayed to his personage by the estranged creatures of the world. Upon his seventh hour of contemplation, he reached the conclusion that if anything had moved in “downstairs,” it was most likely – if not probably – humanity. The following day, he made it a point to leave his habitual surroundings of the mountaintop and find what changes had occurred in the valley below. After he descended, he noticed the air had gradually become agitated with sound, bubbling and frothing like boiled water brimming the edge of a goblet. With increasing unease tempered by curiosity, my grandserp completed the last leg of his journey and entered the valley. The sight that greeted him was a solemn one. A good twelve acres of forest had been leveled, the foliage cleared away, and eight log cabins (along with a mess hall, lodge, and shack) had been erected. Humans lumbered this way and that, most carrying an object resembling a blunted stone mounted on a branch.
Now that I have brought you completely up to date as far as historical significance, do you feel ready to pick up where we left off? Good.
As you are probably now wondering, the buildings mentioned earlier belong to what humanity refers to as a “camp.” Every August the grounds below would be flooded with young boys dressed exactly alike in those changeable skins that Man uses; in turn, each of those skins was decorated with intriguing symbols – letters, I believe they are called. Being able to read myself, I could clearly make out the words “Camp Hemlock” and “Christian Service Brigade” upon its exterior. Generally, these boys were the only inhabitants of the clearing, besides the occasional father here or there. Or so I thought. One year, I ran into a group that I will refer to entirely as the “hunters.”
The hunters were composed of five or six of the human race that were larger than boys, yet smaller than men, undoubtedly adolescents. None of their group wore the camp skin, yet they seemed to be associated with the establishment itself in some way. On several occasions I saw them performing the more laborious jobs, hacking down trees and carrying away the logs. The first time I encountered them was on one of my annual descents to the valley (I saw fit to keep a watchful eye on the human habitations, investigating every few weeks or so). I was gliding anonymously along the leaf-strewn ground near the building referred to as the “lodge” when one of the boys walked by. Of course I gave a polite hiss and rattled my tail once or twice in the traditional greeting. With a scream of terror, the human leaped ten feet in the air and scrambled up the nearest tree.
“Rattlesnake!!!!!” he screeched louder than I thought possible.
Now it was enough that he had already insulted me by responding to my greeting in such an inappropriate manner, but to use an honored and highly dignified word such as rattle alongside the filthy term “snake,” well that snuffed out the last bit of respect I felt towards this human, the now empty space being replaced by an almost violent anger. For it is one thing to insult one’s self, but to insult one’s race is another thing entirely.
I raised myself as high as I could and gave the fourth rattle – Man can never quite seem to understand that two rattles is a greeting, and four is a warning – bared my fangs and let him know what I thought of him (the exact wording I won’t repeat here). Now this was rather useless because humans cannot understand Ser-tongue, a complicated combination of the head and tongue movement. Hissing is part of our warning system, not (as humans suppose) our way of communicating. So I was engaged in a verbal warfare with the boy when I heard a whistling through the air. Instinctively, I shot to the right, my lightning-quick reflexes saving me from the spear that shot past nano-seconds later. An exclamation of excitement vibrated the air from behind me, and I whirled around with fangs extended and rattle blaring. Before my eyes stood one of the hunters, the largest of them all. The oldest among his group, this particular hunter was a young man. Long brown hair in need of grooming hung straight down over a red bandanna on his brow, its length ending within a few inches of his shoulders. Though it was long, the bird’s nest of his hair did not cover his cold blue eyes. With an almost hungry look he brandished a tomahawk from the case at his side and tensed his heavily-muscled form as if he was going to attack. Soon the rest of the hunters joined the ever-growing circle around my apparently curious personage.
All six of them were crowded around me now, the five newcomers observing me with interest. On the far left, the tallest hunter was saying something about “hit it on the head...,” his way past shoulder-length hair flying wildly as he flung his head left to right, the pupils of his hazel eyes nearly dilated. Next to him an almost equally tall fellow gazed at me with a disgusted mortification with his bright green eyes and prominent nose as if I were a giant earthworm that should be squished. After him, the next (not much younger than the first with the tomahawk) stood with mouth agape. Upon observation I found that he had a rather bland face and eyes that didn’t reveal a great amount of intelligence, yet I could have sworn that his spiked blond hair sparked electricity when I wasn’t looking directly at it. Overall, it was quite hard to take him seriously when his well-muscled arms were waving wildly in all directions, giving him the comical appearance of a befuddled orangutan. Standing beside him were the two shortest hunters, one with croppy brown hair, blue eyes, and of stout posture, the other even shorter with dirty blond hair and blue eyes (nearly hidden by a way-too-big army helmet from Vietnam). Both of them seemed completely astonished at my presence, though they treated me with a level of respect.
Surrounded and outnumbered, I turned and darted beneath the legs of the nearest hunter, the one with spiky hair. Ignoring the startled shout that accompanied my action, I sped as fast as I could back the way I had come. I seemed to have successfully slipped away in the confusion, for the humans did not give chase.
The next morning I was preparing to go out and catch myself a meal when voices sounded outside my abode. Stealthily I exited my burrow and chanced a glance from underneath my rock. What met me was not a welcome sight. Five of the hunters were gathered literally on the doorstep to my home, each of them armed. The oldest one carried his spear, the electric one a tomahawk, the tallest one was armed with a knife, and the two shorter ones carried a machete and a sharpened branch. As I was contemplating what I should do, a voice of another human rang across the clearing, and this time it was one of the men. He raised a small rectangular object to his face and the hunters froze in place, each of them looking serious and brandishing their weapons in a showy way. At first I thought they were going to do something violent, but the object in the man’s grasp clicked twice. Smiling, he took it away from his face and made an O.K. sign. As if by magic the hunters relaxed and began talking and laughing loudly. They then seemed to express thanks to the man, using several words like “camera” and “great shot.” After what seemed an eternity they left my doorstep. I watched them, with an uneasy feeling inside me, as they traveled north onto the fourth peak. Many of my good friends resided there, including some of my family. For a moment I felt compelled to deter them in some way, but I realized that I was only one and they were many. Yet the thought of what those disturbing humans might do to my friends if they ran into them made me shiver.
Almost eight hours later, one of my friends (Great Horn the Owl himself) appeared flying low over the ground, a limp rope-like object dangling from his talons. With a great deal of wing-work he landed softly on the ledge just outside my abode. With a start of horror, I noticed that the limp form was no rope at all but my dear friend and cousin, Marcus Antonius Drachmas Augusto the V. His rattler was a bloodied mess, and he was pierced (though not deeply) in many other places over his body. At first I was struck with the horrible thought that my friend had killed him for supper, but then I realized that the amicable owl would not have brought him here if he had. I looked upward at the owl questioningly.
“A group of man-child attacked him unawares. The wounds you see were inflicted by the oldest and most detested weapon of man, the spear. It was all I could do to swoop down and carry him off before they finished him. He should be able to recover, but he cannot do that in fourth peak. Those hunters have marked his home since it was on his very doorstep that the incident occurred. He will have to room with you until he heals,” Great Horn said, his commanding tone and dignified appearance having quite the affect on me. I nodded silently and gently curled part of my body around my cousin, dragging him into my home. I resolved to pay the hunters back for what they had done.
In the middle of the night I was awakened from a fitful sleep by a hysterical chirping that was apparently echoing from my doorstep and down into my burrow. With a sigh I knew it could only be one person at this time of night, Barry the Bat. Grumpily, I drug myself upward from the main room of my nest and through the long tunnels to the surface. As I exited my dwelling and entered the little dome beneath the rock, a small black object dove at me, squeaking at the top of its lungs.
“They’ve invaded my home! Robbers, t-thieves! M-m-murders! Help! I’m dying! My family! Fire! Tornado! Flood! The end of all things!”
My head spinning, I rattled my tail loudly to gain the bat-brained creature's attention. “Explain,” said I. Taking a deep breath, the small winged creature prepared to orate what appeared to be a long story.
“W-well, I w-w-was resting in my h-home, you know, t-the c-c-c-c……” Barry trailed off, and then began to wail. “My home! My family! Tornado! Murderers! Hurricane! Destruction! Bat-men from Mars!” Hissing loudly to exclaim my displeasure with his behavior, I attempted to calm him down.
. “What happened? Explain it slowly, and if you stutter one more time I’ll eat you” (I threw in the last bit playfully, but he seemed to take it seriously. Pity when no one gets a good joke). Gulping loudly, Barry began to speak again.
. “Well, I was resting quietly on one of the rock shelves in my home, contemplating the consistency of water-spiders…. You know that crunchy taste they have? Well I actually think that it might be more of a crackle than a crunch, since…” Barry trailed off, as he had noticed that I was looking extremely displeased. Swallowing loudly for the second time, he began again. “Well anyway, there was a bright light and loud voices. I was nearly blinded and began to flutter around wildly. I banged the ceiling, wall, and floor of my rocky corridor before I could see clearly. Before my very eyes were a group of humans! Six of them, actually. One of them had this long branch topped with a shiny object….It was actually rather attractive, you know? Like the coins I found last week. Do you think anyone will try to steal them from me? I hear they are valuable….”
But I had stopped listening. My mind had frozen once the description of the humans in the cave had been uttered. It was the hunters, and there was no doubt about it. But what were they doing in the caves?
With a subtle fear I bade the malapert Barry goodnight and ordered him to shut up before he attracted an unfriendly owl that would be the death of him. As I turned back to my tunnels, he zoomed by me and dove into the hole and journeyed deep into my nest (bats being rather like winged-mice, they can do other things than just fly). Groaning inwardly, I slowly glided into my tunnel-entrance. How many more guests would be joining me?
After an entire night of no sleep (Barry chattered for hours until I sent him off to explore the tunnels in which he made enough noise to wake the mountain itself from its deep slumber), I was met bright and early outside my doorstep by literally a crowd of copperheads. They all greeted me in their own fashion, flicking their tongues and dipping their heads. One of them slithered forward and spoke to me.
“We are in need of a shelter, brother. Five sons of Man caught us on our annual journey from water to the mountain, and it being the thirteenth day of our absence, we dare not end it at that number. May we stay with you until fourteen comes?”
I hissed my displeasure but nodded yes reluctantly. Copperheads were strange creatures. Not as high as the Order of the Rattle but not so lowly, either. Their customs were as strange as themselves, for being water creatures they believed deeply in luck. Particularly, bad luck. With a sinking feeling I watched all sixteen of the copperheads curl into a writhing mass just over the entrance to my tunnel. As if to explain this, the leader (who had yet to join his fellows) spoke to me. “It can be fatal to enter the abode of another than one’s own kind on an hour before noon. Unless the sun has reached its zenith, it is most certain that a painful death of some kind shall overtake you.” I nodded as if this made perfect sense, but in reality I viewed them all as raving lunatics.
Two hours later I was resting on the sun-heated rock above my abode when I heard the voices of the hunters. Quickly I dropped off the rock and darted in the direction of my hole, only to be met by the mass of visiting copperheads. When I asked them to move (and warned them of the danger) they refused, saying that it was midday and to move on dry land at this time would be disastrous. Just at that moment a hunter (they had now reached my abode) began to place his foot exactly where I was positioned. Rattling and hissing loudly I struck with full force at him, but my fangs were held back by the thick leather of his boots. With a cry of alarm he jerked his foot backward – with me still attached to it – and began jumping up and down to shake me off. It was the electric spiky one. At just the right moment I released and went flying towards the tall, long-haired one (my fangs bared). With a scream he threw his hands in front of his face and attempted to leap out of the way, but fell over instead, his foot having caught on a rock. I realized only too late that I was now headed dead-on for a spruce tree. Bracing myself for impact I collided with the immovable object, my body crumpled, and I fell to the ground in a painful daze.
Slowly I raised my pounding head and gave it a shake, attempting to clear my now hazy vision. When I finally managed to focus, I almost laughed out loud. During the entire episode the hunters had focused their attention on me, unaware of the throng of copperheads that were now milling towards them. Suddenly the one with the spear seemed to notice them from the corner of his eye. Shouting something unintelligible, he railed for his comrades’ attention. As if one, they turned and took in the sight of all sixteen serpents arrayed before them, heads raised and hisses of disapprobation issuing in rapidity. Before any of them could lose their minds, however, the oldest one extended his spear and struck at my fellows. Fearing someone could get hurt, I called anxiously for my brothers to back off. They did so by retreating into the crags and holes around the entrance to my nest. With their attention divided, I seized the moment and slipped past the hunters, heading full steam towards my hole. Just as I neared the entrance, Barry stuck his head out to see what had awakened him from his beauty sleep. I collided with him and forcefully shoved the belligerent creature back down the tunnel. I then dived down the hole with great quickness, yet it was not unnoticed. The hunter with the spear and bandanna had seen me and whirled into action.
Quickly tossing his spear aside, he dropped to his knees and began to gather pine needles and other brush. Once this was done, he piled them around my doorstep – even shoving some down the gullet of the tunnel – and withdrew a small stick, capped with red. Extending his hand, he ran the red end of the small stick across a stone, instantly lighting a flame. With a grin like a young child about to squash an ant, he dropped the burning brand onto the pile of dry brush. The perfect fuel exploded almost instantly into white hot flame. The fire soon raced down the tunnel towards my underground retreat – leaves and other foliage had built up in the tunnel after years of constant use – causing smoke to billow everywhere.
I reached the main room just ahead of hungry flames and managed to stop Barry from flying directly into its consuming grasp. Urgently, I roused my sleeping cousin and alerted him to the situation. By the time we were all heading out the back way, smoke had already filled the room. We traveled as fast as we could in single file towards the surface. When we reached fresh air, I almost collapsed. Barry was coughing and fluttering around aimlessly, dazed by the smoke. My eyes burning, I looked for the hunters. What met me was not only comical but just in its own way.
All five of the hunters were dancing wildly, or rather running, in circles. It seemed that the smoke had disturbed the hive of wasps that was situated in the branches of the nearby spruce. They, had in turn, responded with vengeance upon the hunters, showing no mercy. After receiving a good beating (or should I say stinging), they turned and sprinted in retreat down the mountain, shouting and waving their arms wildly. As I prepared to return to my now smoldering home, I found the copperheads gathered beneath the old spruce. The leader glided up to me and spoke.
“We must be leaving you now, brother, for when wasps and smoke are within twenty feet, it can be a sign of mortal danger. But I am thankful for your hospitality and feel regret for what those humans have done to your home. But in the end they were routed. So it seems, they bit off more than they could chew, an undoubted sign of….”
“Mortal danger,” I interrupted a brilliant smile on my face.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Replicating
So for Advanced composition and literature class i had to write a poem copying the style of another poet. It's not very good, considering Its the first time I've attempted to replicate another's style, but I thought you'd enjoy it anyway. Here 'tis!
(this is the one I was copying, its called "From Troiluss and Cressida")
"Can life be a blessing,
Or worth the possessing,
Can life be a blessing if love were away?
Ah no! though our love all night keep us waking,
And though he torment us with cares all the day,
Yet he sweetens, he sweetens our pains in the taking,
There's an hour at the last, there's an hour to repay."
-John Dryden
(And this is the one I wrote. Compare the two and see if you can find any similarities, such as rhyme schemes, tone, and theme.)
Is it yet possible,
Or even plausible,
That I could possibly plausibly depart?
Still not! For I could never leave this place,
Until you finally decide to believe,
That the only way, the only way to his grace,
Is by thorny crown and cross, the lasting gift to receive
For those who are wondering, I finished the narrative I was writing a while back. I'm not sure if any of you would want to read it or not (since it is quite lengthy), but if you do decide to start it, please make sure you do so at a time where you can read the entire piece without skimming or interruption. I will post it later tonight.
Forever,
~An Ordinary
(this is the one I was copying, its called "From Troiluss and Cressida")
"Can life be a blessing,
Or worth the possessing,
Can life be a blessing if love were away?
Ah no! though our love all night keep us waking,
And though he torment us with cares all the day,
Yet he sweetens, he sweetens our pains in the taking,
There's an hour at the last, there's an hour to repay."
-John Dryden
(And this is the one I wrote. Compare the two and see if you can find any similarities, such as rhyme schemes, tone, and theme.)
Is it yet possible,
Or even plausible,
That I could possibly plausibly depart?
Still not! For I could never leave this place,
Until you finally decide to believe,
That the only way, the only way to his grace,
Is by thorny crown and cross, the lasting gift to receive
For those who are wondering, I finished the narrative I was writing a while back. I'm not sure if any of you would want to read it or not (since it is quite lengthy), but if you do decide to start it, please make sure you do so at a time where you can read the entire piece without skimming or interruption. I will post it later tonight.
Forever,
~An Ordinary
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Dreams
Ok, so This is another poem I wrote I while ago. Its got a pretty steady metre, and i would like to know what you guys think (some of you may have already seen it.)
Dreams
I am sleeping, only sleeping,
So gently through the Night.
I am dreaming, only dreaming,
Of knights in armour bright.
I am wishing, only wishing,
To join them in their fight.
I am longing, only longing,
to cast my lot with right.
I am hoping, only hoping,
That one day I might.
Leave here, only leave here,
And join them in their plight.
I am fearing, only fearing,
The dragon's mighty claw.
For he is slaying, only slaying,
Many with his maw.
I am standing, only standing,
Before the mighty beast.
I am fearless, only fearless,
Though I am the least.
I am praying only praying,
For courage in my trial,
I am Trying only trying,
To slay this beast so vile.
I am holding, only holding,
My gleaming sword so high,
I am crying, only crying,
Thou beast prepare to die.
And then one day, only one day,
When before the king I kneel.
He shall welcome only welcome,
The servant to the meal.
-----------------------------
As you can see, it has more of a mystical-ish feel to it. By the way, an idea for a song popped into my head the other night, and i am now working on developing it. I might post it up here for you all to read!
As always,
~An Ordinary
Dreams
I am sleeping, only sleeping,
So gently through the Night.
I am dreaming, only dreaming,
Of knights in armour bright.
I am wishing, only wishing,
To join them in their fight.
I am longing, only longing,
to cast my lot with right.
I am hoping, only hoping,
That one day I might.
Leave here, only leave here,
And join them in their plight.
I am fearing, only fearing,
The dragon's mighty claw.
For he is slaying, only slaying,
Many with his maw.
I am standing, only standing,
Before the mighty beast.
I am fearless, only fearless,
Though I am the least.
I am praying only praying,
For courage in my trial,
I am Trying only trying,
To slay this beast so vile.
I am holding, only holding,
My gleaming sword so high,
I am crying, only crying,
Thou beast prepare to die.
And then one day, only one day,
When before the king I kneel.
He shall welcome only welcome,
The servant to the meal.
-----------------------------
As you can see, it has more of a mystical-ish feel to it. By the way, an idea for a song popped into my head the other night, and i am now working on developing it. I might post it up here for you all to read!
As always,
~An Ordinary
Friday, October 9, 2009
The beginning
Hello! Welcome to my new blog, Writings of an Ordinary. Here I will be sharing some different things I am working on, mostly poetry, so you all can give me some pointers (where to spice things up, etc.). Thanks for visiting! More stuff will be coming soon, but for now perhaps you could be held off with my most recent poem (some of you may have already seen it ). It is very free (verse) and is rather dark. Then again, most of my poems are.
The Lion and The Beast
Darkness shrouds me,
The Lion and The Beast
Darkness shrouds me,
All light stays unseen.
A growl distant,
Echoes from a beast.
Fear closes round me,
An icy claw surrounds.
My body is crushed,
It’s soul smothered.
Ragged and short,
My breath quickens.
I reach upward,
Blood drips ‘pon my brow.
The ground ‘neath me,
Slowly gives way.
Gradually I sink,
Drowning in mire.
The sound of talons,
Met with cold stone.
Echoes round me,
My presence is known.
Orbs of cold fire,
Burn with malice.
Intended destruction,
Fueled by hate.
I shut my eyes,
A prayer escapes.
Readying for the blow,
I breath my last.
Seconds passed,
Time slows down.
It seems like hours,
In stillness expectant.
But in the darkness,
I sensed a third.
On padded feet he came,
Silent, as if on wings.
He faced the beast,
Its doom at hand.
And with muzzle wide,
He roared.
Brilliant Gold,
His mane he shook.
Like shattered raindrops,
Light glanced.
His wings encircled me,
The mire fell away.
Upward we soared,
Freedom had come.
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