The Poetry Marathon

I stand at the prow of my ship,

watching the world burn.

Many was the time I stood in victory,

watching the conquered slip away as we sail for home.

Today it is I who am conquered.

The fires of Surt visited my halls.

Black ravens of war flew to the enemy’s cause.

He was too strong.

Our defense too weak.

Now at the end, we take to our sheets.

To find a new land,

a home beyond his reach.

If Odin is merciful,

we will be dashed upon the reef.

Raise your mugs.

Shout for joy.

The Thane has returned with spoils and plunder.

His name has been made greater by his heroic deeds.

Many warriors shout his praise.

The valiant dead drink to him in Odin’s halls of gold.

While they feast his glory at the unending table.

The Thane provides for his people

as good father and king.

May his beard never be cut,

and his teeth always be strong.

Raise your ale.

Lift high the mead.

The Thane will provide for every need.

There will be a time of mourning for those gone to Odin’s halls.

But it is not this night.

Tonight we drink.

Tonight we feast.

Tonight we slay the hunger beast.

For fear is gone

and terror is fled

While might and wisdom sit upon the the Thane’s head.

As his glory grows, thus does ours.

Sing his name and drink his health.

Now, someone pass the roast elk.

Long ago,

before the realms began to die,

the trickster god Loki played his games on high.

None could master him.

None could contain him.

His tricks and jests were the bane to all who see him.

Then one day, the Trickster met a man named Bard.

Bard was short.

Bard was fat.

Bard wore a battered old hat.

He was old.

He was frail,

but his wits were sharp as a finely honed nail.

Bard and the Trickster met on a lonely mountain road.

The path was narrow.

The alls were high.

The ravine was deep as Helheim

Two could not pass,

One would have to go back the long way round.

The two argued until the sun rose.

Not one would give an inch,

even when Bard’s belly began to twitch.

Finally, as the sun began to western on the second day of debate,

Loki proposed a deal to send Bard back to the bottom’s gate.

“Take this,” he said, holding out a worthless cap of leather.

“With this on your head, your luck will never be better.

It will lighten your step and speed your travels.

You will succeed in all your endeavors.

Why, it will even keep you warm in bad weather.”

Now, Bard was no fool.

He knew the hat to be a useless tool,

meant to make him look no smarter than his mule.

But Bard had a trick of his own to play.

His horse was weak,

and his mule was lame.

This climb would be the end of its days.

Bard countered the Trickster with a trick of his own.

“I cannot return,” says he, “for I must take this mule to the top of the spire

and bless him there with holy liquid fire.If this task I complete before the moon’s next turn,

a curious change he will perform.

For if this mule is blessed at the summit,

nevermore will he plummet.

For a flying mule he will be.”

“A flying mule!”

The Trickster shouted, he changed his mind in a flash.

“I must snatch this beast no matter the task.”

“I will return to the summit,” said the god,

“If you gift me the mule and holy fire.”

Bard did argue, and he did protest,

but in the end, he allowed the god his price, but with a single request.

“If the mule be carried by a god,

his flight will be swifter and his heights the higher.”

Thus a beast of burden became the beast of Loki’s burden.

To the top they went.

The god ached and strained beneath the mule’s weight.

Sweat poured from his brown and stung his eyes.

Bard rode behind with a contented sigh.

Once at the peak, Bard thanked the Trickster.

Then gave him the mule,

for Bard knew the beast’s death was long passed due.

He gave Loki a flagon of water,

some gibberish words,

and a fool’s dance.

Loki took it all greedily without a second glance.

As Bard rode away,

a smile on his weathered face,

he heard the god singing nonsense and dance like a mummer.

The last thing Bard heard before making his descent,

was a mighty scream as Lokie rode his mule down into the abyss.

The gods created the smoking leaf,

thus they must be good.

Men discovered the leaf and crafted the pipe,

thus they must be wise.

We praise the good gods and wise men.

Without their foresight,

our means would have no end.

For who has not spent many an hour,

trailing smoke into the bowers.

There can be no joy sweeter than,

fully belly,

foaming flagon,

and sweet smoke rising towards the rafters.

Ah, the golden brew of sweetest flavor,

tis my joy to sip and savor.

Wine of the gods,

wrung from gentle flowers.

Allowed many a warrior to pass a fine hour.

Sweet mead, I drink to thee.

May you ever be close to me.

In deepest need, in darkest hour,

or as I lay naked among the flowers.

You sore my spirit,

and lift my heart.

Oh, that we may never part.

You swim my reason,

let me drink mead at every season.

Immortal beauty.

Warrior goddess with hair of gold and eyes of sapphire.

Her shield arm is strong,

her sword arm is sure.

Her eyes are keen,

her aim is true.

Lovely and deadly Thrūd,

we lift our praise to thee.

Shine upon us in our hour of need.

Besiege thy mighty father on our behalf.

Lead us to arms,

as the tide rises high.

Have pity on a lowly man,

too feeble to stand for his own.

Have mercy mighty goddess of beauty and strength.

Aid me in my hour of need.

Raise my feeble strength and low cunning,

that I might sit at they father’s table.

Even just to serve in the All-Father’s mighty halls of feasting,

is more honor than I deserve.

Hear my plea.

Answer my cry.

Your humble servant awaits.

The forge could not contain his fury.

The heat of a thousand suns pale before his eyes.

The strongest gale quells in his presence.

The lightning, his own dominion, fears his coming wrath.

The thunder god is loose.

He comes to bring wrath and justice.

Let all who do evil flee,

for there is no escape.

Let all who worship him rejoice,

and join the vanguard of his war.

The thunder god, mighty Thor,

will lead us in battle.

Rais arms.

Up shields.

Form the wall,

and let the horns sound.

for we fear no darkness.

Onward to war,

onward to victory,

and Thor’s glorious day!

I looked into the eyes of Surt.

I saw his fury in the moment.

Elderstahl flashed in the night.

Fires raged and roared.

Surt screamed his defiance at the realms.

Who could save us?

Thor perished on Jormungandr’s fangs.

The All-Father, consumed by the beast Fnrir.

Even all seeing Heimdall fell to Loki’s blades.

None are left to stand in the final day.

Ragnarok has come to burn us all away.

As the fires rose, consuming each realm,

Sure surveyed his work.

The grief of worlds pierced his stone heart.

Only  at the end could he see what his fury wrought.

Elderstahl claimed one more life on the final day,

sheathed in its master’s flesh.

In anguish he died,

calling back the flames of wrath,

like calling back the wind on the sea.

Twas the fury of Surt that washed the worlds clean.

There is beauty in the hammer stroke

as it shapes useless metal to useful form.

There is pain.

The forge is hot.

The anvil rings as steel strikes back against the smith.

Muscles ache.

Fatigue burns as the day passes.

But the task must not be left undone.

Whether plow or sword or barrel stave,

the smith will not rest,

even when the day passes and the Long Night comes.

For it is in the night that the true beauty of his work is seen.

Strength to furrow the stubborn earth.

Strength to defend hearth and home.

Strength to hold all together.

For though the night is long, it is not eternal.

Beauty will rise with the coming sun.

And the smith again will set to his work.

What is the worth of a man,

and how does one reckon his value?

There was a time when the gods would judge.

Heimdale would give report,

Odin would see.

Thor fought beside, weighing valor.

But the gods are dead.

All wisdom is gone from the world.

In their great grief, they rent their worlds asunder.

Asgard is no more.

Ragnarok tore their lives away.

Yet, not in vain were the deeds of the gods.

Though they perished,

Midgard was saved.

Their pain bought us life.

Their blood spared us their fate.

What is the value of a man,

and how does one reckon his worth?

Measure him against the gods.

Though he fall short,

there is no greater prize

than to die as they did,

a willing sacrifice.