Stories & Soliloquies

Stories & Soliloquies
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    • 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
    • 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.

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      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.

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      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
    • A Poem about Bandits

      Posted at 12:00 pm by Michelle Joelle, on October 31, 2014

      Another vaguely Arthurian poem popped into my mind the other day, and I thought it was worth bumping Philosopher Fridays this week to share it. I think it may need another stanza to give a better picture of their lives and revelries, but I’m still pondering that. I have a sneaking suspicion that another poem is coming – I have a mind to write about desperate courtiers.

      In the dark, still places in the deep of the woods
      Lay in wait thieves and bandits who live on travelers’ goods.
      All that it takes is just one handsome carriage,
      Well stocked with provisions for a long forest passage.

      One carriage is all that these vagabonds need
      To supply themselves fully for two months at least.
      They’ll use what they steal to augment their home camp
      And live off the food for as long as it lasts.

      The rest of the treasures they would barter and trade,
      And buy new supplies from the profits they made.
      Then they’d return to their camps, where they’ll lie
      In wait ’til another poor soul passes by.

      Posted in Poems | 3 Comments | Tagged arthurian, medieval, my work, poetry, thieves, trees
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