HERE, in the wild parts of the world -
here, where humans do not come, and crows do not fly,
nor hares creep, and where ship-banners are furled
(when indeed they dare to come at all) - here, in the wild, I lie.

THERE is a curious sort of mist that hangs above the world:
sheer, thick as cobwebs, unyielding as an infant's cry.
It envelopes the dead lands, the mountains, the curled
frozen shores that once, long ago, lived. If I sigh
into it, it does nothing but murmur back, muttering of the world.

BE it so that, far beyond this clouded sky,
words are stronger than I? I have been too long furled.

DRAGONS, dreams, ancient stories hurled
against the bones of Time, and Time's eye,
watching, mocking, the interwoven histories curled
upon each other. I am myth, a fading cry
of what was. The memories have been furled,
bound tight in custom, reason. Still - here, in the wild, I lie:
here, in the wild parts of the world.

A kenning is a description of a thing one saw, often done in formal or poetic language; it was very popular as a form of Anglo-Saxon riddling. Anyway, here's one I made!

I saw this thing once: a face made of red fire and golden flame drowning beneath the water. Waves of her hair drifted golden above the lake-weed, and red strands tumbled lazily about the little silver fish. About her flame was wrapped a great mantle darker and bluer than the water; there were diamonds sewn into the hem and hood and collar. The darkness drowned her fire, and all that was left was the diamond-studded mantle shifting and turning in the lake: the owls and wolves made a funeral dirge.

Reading the Entrails: a Rondel

They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate-
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
Tomorrow manifests and brings the bill
For every kiss and kill, the small and great.
You want to know the future, love? Then wait:
I'll answer your impatient questions. Still-
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate,
The cards and stars that tumble as they will

I'll come to you tonight, dear, when it's late,
You will not see me; you may feel a chill.
I'll wait until you sleep, then take my fill,
And that will be your future on a plate.
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate.

~Neil Gaiman

A kenning I wrought for you...

I saw this thing once: a face made of red fire and golden flame floating drowned beneath the water, red hair drifting above the lake-weed and tumbling about the little silver fish; about was wrapped a great blue mantle with diamonds at the hem and hood and cloak.

Since I received a few complaints about the last one, I've rewritten it to be less - geeky, shall we say? Here is the new version.

A Song for the Unicorn

Once I was as you are now;
I sang and danced and smiled.
But now I have become undone,
a restless wand'ring child;
there is no breath of faith or hope
or joy upon my lips,
nor any warmth of love (or life)
in my chill fingertips -
for once I went – o! Long ago -
to spin within a glade
(of faery moss and chiming bells
and starlight it was made)
but from the night the stars came down
and landed in that glade,
and danced before my dazzled eyes
in moonlight and in shade;
(flowing flashing flames of hair
as white as any snow
that blew about the silver curves
of neck and back and brow,
a slender whipping tufted tail
that lashed and to and fro,
and rising spiral into night
from that white-gleaming brow
a horn that pierced eternity
and danced with faery-light
so that the glade was fair and green
when all should have been dark,
and music rang within it
sweeter than a summer's lark....)

And when it left I could not move
save for to weep and moan,
for in my heart the seeds of beauty
had been deeply sown -
and now that it had gone again
my soul was left to sigh
and I became a wandering lonely
thing where ravens cry....

(But once I was as you are now,
and 'tis no fault of mine
that now I must forever seek
that white unearthly shine.)

Yesterday, with about ten minutes worth of work, Saiwe learned to pick up a bell and drop it in a cup. Today, in less than fifteen minutes, he completely generalised the concept. I could not be prouder.

The bell angles at the end of two large keychains, so when he tried to carry it, he perpetually got it tangled up with his feet. This resulted in his grabbing it and flinging it about as if he were attempting to take someone's eye out, screeching happily all the while. He would retrieve it from my lap, my hand, the bench, the table, even the floor, and drag it back to a cup that might be anywhere, at any height, sometimes even having to climb an arm or flap up to the table in order to reach it. At the bridge (ata, Saiwe! Ata!) he'd fluff up quite pleased with himself and wait for his bit of walnut. And of course, he's also working (again) on coming when cued. (Anan, Saiwe! --Ata!) It didn't take him more than half a dozen repetitions to learn that, either!

Tomorrow, I think I'm going to try to teach him to turn left in a circle - and then Tuesday to turn right!