Stories & Soliloquies

Stories & Soliloquies
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  • Category: Poems

    • A Poem: The Smell of the Peat

      Posted at 12:30 pm by Michelle Joelle, on April 7, 2015

      It was historically common in Nothern Europe, the British Isles, Iceland, and Greenland to both build houses out of peat block, and then heat them by burning peat logs. The latter is, of course, still quite common, but we’ve come a long way in terms of building materials and ventilation. As mere fuel, I find the smell of burning peat is incredibly pleasant. I also love the smell of rain-soaked peat bogs.

      But when I toured a village of recreated medieval cottages made entirely of peat bricks, and fueled by peat fires, I found the smell to be overwhelming. The mixture of the peat smoke with the freshness of the peat walls left the air so heavily perfumed that at first I couldn’t even breathe inside the cottages, and had to step out several times to clear my lungs. It was like a thick incense that clouded my mind, and I tried to imagine what it would be like to live an entire Winter in a cottage like this.

      The result is the next entry into my series of pseudo-Medieval poems. The first three can be found here, here, and here. Please do not repost any of these poems without a direct link back to this website.

      __________________________

      The Smell of the Peat, by M. Joelle

      Under the thatched roof
      The smell of the peat
      Hangs thick in the air
      Both smoky and sweet.

      We curl up inside
      As we wait for the Spring.
      This room is our kingdom,
      And the hearth is our king.

      We serve it, it keeps us
      In warm food and heat
      We owe our whole lives
      To the smell of the peat.

      We collect it all summer
      And dry it out through the fall.
      Some is fuel for the hearth,
      Some is built into our walls.

      So we keep our king happy
      And we keep the hearth neat
      And we reverently worship
      The smell of the peat.

      Posted in Poems | 4 Comments | Tagged my work, peat moss, poem, poetry
    • Discovering Poetry

      Posted at 1:00 pm by Michelle Joelle, on December 17, 2014

      When it comes to poetry, I’ve always been a total philistine. I never got it. I could analyze it, understand it, recite it, and even enjoy it, but it almost never left a lasting impression.

      I liked poems that told stories. I liked poetic language. Older poetry had a better shot of finding a home in my memory, but invariably, my school kept sending me to modern poetry. Artsy poetry. Poetry that didn’t rhyme, or had no meter, or didn’t use verbs, because it was trying challenge my expectations or make me feel unsettled.

      People who liked poetry, I thought, didn’t care for poetry that rhymed, or had a repetitive structure, or which was just pretty or fun, and that was the poetry I liked best. Those were cliches and antiquated conventions that stifled creativity. Sure, you could appreciate Shakespeare and song lyrics without garnering a scowl, but generally when it came to poetry, weirder was better. I tried to like the “right” poetry, but it all left me cold. Even when I could intellectually see that it was good poetry, I just couldn’t connect, and it made me feel like maybe poetry just wasn’t for me.

      It wasn’t until I finished school that I realized there was a whole world of poetry out there that fit my tastes.

      Ancient epics. Arthurian Romances. Children’s poetry. Anything Tolkien approved. Poetry that was deep and thought-provoking, but still rhymed, played with alliteration, and felt musical and rhythmic. Poems that could stand alone yet still evoke a larger context. Poems that spoke to me rather than at me. It turns out that I didn’t actually dislike poetry – I just didn’t like the poetry to which I’d been exposed in school.

      It came upon me gradually, but now I love poetry. I’m also very, very picky about it. I’ll finish this post with two people who helped save the art of poetry for me: A.E. Housman, who I only just discovered this year (and am still trying to figure out), and A.A. Milne, author of Winnie the Pooh. If you enjoy the same kind of poetry I do, I highly encourage you to click the accompany links and read more of these poets’ works.

      ________________________________________________________

      From Clee to Heaven the Beacon Burns, by A.E. Housman, from A Shropshire Lad

      FROM Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
      The shires have seen it plain,
      From north and south the sign returns
      And beacons burn again.

      Look left, look right, the hills are bright,
      The dales are light between,
      Because ’tis fifty years to-night
      That God has saved the Queen.

      Now, when the flame they watch not towers
      About the soil they trod,
      Lads, we ’ll remember friends of ours
      Who shared the work with God.

      To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
      To fields that bred them brave,
      The saviours come not home to-night
      Themselves they could not save.

      It dawns in Asia, tombstones show
      And Shropshire names are read;
      And the Nile spills his overflow
      Beside the Severn’s dead.

      We pledge in peace by farm and town
      The Queen they served in war,
      And fire the beacons up and down
      The land they perished for.

      ‘God save the Queen’ we living sing,
      From height to height ’tis heard;
      And with the rest your voices ring,
      Lads of the Fifty-third.

      Oh, God will save her, fear you not:
      Be you the men you ’ve been,
      Get you the sons your fathers got,
      And God will save the Queen.

      ________________________________________________________

      Wind on the Hill, by A.A. Milne, from the amazing site allpoetry.com

      No one can tell me,
      Nobody knows,
      Where the wind comes from,
      Where the wind goes.

      It’s flying from somewhere
      As fast as it can,
      I couldn’t keep up with it,
      Not if I ran.

      But if I stopped holding
      The string of my kite,
      It would blow with the wind
      For a day and a night.

      And then when I found it,
      Wherever it blew,
      I should know that the wind
      Had been going there too.

      So then I could tell them
      Where the wind goes…
      But where the wind comes from
      Nobody knows.

      Posted in Poems | 18 Comments | Tagged A.A. Milne, A.E. Housman, poems, poetry
    • The Blacksmith’s Apprentice: a Poem

      Posted at 12:00 pm by Michelle Joelle, on December 15, 2014

      When Norse legends include mentions of Vinland, the magical land where Leif Eiriksson found grapes and berries growing freely across the land and iron bubbled up from the bogs, it’s likely that they’re talking about the 11th-century Viking Settlement, L’anse Aux Meadows in Newfoundland. Lots of Northern Atlantic islands claim to be Vinland, but the northern tip of Newfoundland is the only place archaeologists have found the remains of Northern European style buildings and artifacts. If you take a trip to Newfoundland, this is a must see.

      116

      This is Ragnar Redbeard, one of the friendly Viking reenactors on site, and the settlement’s blacksmith. He performs demonstrations of his work and makes replicas of the iron artifacts that visitors can pick up and experience. He also chooses a child from the audience to act as his apprentice, running the bellows while he works.

      IMG_3612

      Naturally, my husband and I were keen to participate, so after the demonstration, we asked if we could perhaps, if it wasn’t too much trouble, take a turn at the bellows and ask him a few more questions. We wanted to know more about how the settlers harvested the iron ore and processed it, and then turned it into tools. We were ready for Ragnar to answer our questions but laugh off our request to help, but amazingly, he was thrilled that we wanted to join in the fun.

      IMG_3615

      Because we were on our honeymoon, Ragnar let us help make two items that fit together – a nail and a hook. It’s our favorite souvenir from the trip, and is now proudly on display in our home.

      119

      It was a lot of fun, but I have to say – running the bellows is a lot of work, and it’s not easy to do. You can’t have any pauses in the airflow, and so you need to develop a musical rhythm to keep each bellow slightly offset from the other. You can’t just switch back and forth, or else you risk a gap in the airflow. To brag a little, I was almost a little too zealous – my bellow skills were so good and so pause-less that Ragnar had to ask me to slow down. It’s a delicate balance.

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      In thinking about that work, and the real apprentices who would have to keep that delicate rhythm for hours and hours, waiting for a chance to learn another skill, gain a little responsibility, and get the chance to make something from start to finish, I came up with a little poem. The smith in this poem is far less friendly than Ragnar, who I’m sure would never treat his apprentice this way, and the rhythm is more like a song than a poem. I hope you enjoy it, nonetheless.

      The Blacksmith’s Apprentice
      by Michelle Joelle

      Keep the rhythm of the bellows
      Keep the fire glowing red
      Never forget your place, good fellow
      Never you let the coals go dead.

      Watch the blacksmith stoke the fire
      Watch him making nails and tools
      Never shall you work the iron
      Never shape it as it cools.

      Hold the rhythm of the bellows
      Hold your tongue and earn your keep
      Never you boast among your fellows
      Never sow what you cannot reap.

      Make no promise past the fire
      Make no deals with any one
      Never shall your work the iron
      Never while you’re under thumb.

      Keep the rhythm of the bellows
      Keep your master’s fire red
      Never forget your place, good fellow
      Never you’ll rise ’til your master is dead.

      Posted in Poems | 10 Comments | Tagged apprentice, blacksmith, iron, my work, newfoundland, poem, poetry, vikings, vinland, writing
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